If It Bleeds (6 page)

When they talked to my parents, they'd pine for the old country or they'd complain about the price of things. Once out of earshot, my father would say, “If they miss it so much, they should go back! Look at us—we've jobs and homes and good schools for the wee ones. Scotland's a nice place to visit, but Canada's my home.”

And it was too. My mother and father and my older brother all applied for citizenship as soon as they were able. I was Canadian by birth. My parents and my brother were Canadian by choice. So we were all Canadians together, in our house on the Hill. But I grew up with the lilt of Scotland all around me.

“Nicole,” my mother said as I let myself in the front door, “what a nice surprise.” She's a petite redhead with flashing blue-green eyes, and today she was fully turned out. She didn't look like she should be in the kitchen at all.

“What's with the getup?” I asked.

“Some friends coming in for a bite,” she said.

“Sorry, Mom. I should have called.”

“Don't be silly, dear,” she said, leading me back into the kitchen to continue her work while we chatted. “I always brag about you. You know that. It would be lovely to have you here in person so I can show you off.”

I settled easily into old kitchen rhythms. I loaded things into the dishwasher, wiped the counters and generally made myself useful.

“Not a chance,” I replied. “I'm outta here before anyone comes. Sorry. You remember what happened the last time?”

“That was nothing. It's just because you're so pretty.”

Though she clearly remembered, I felt inclined to remind her. Just in case. “That Vivienne McPhee tried to set me up with her nephew. What's his name?”

“Hamish,” my mom supplied.

“Yes, that's it. Hamish. As
if
.”

“Now, now, dear. You don't know a thing about him.”

“But I
do
. Ask Dad.”

And now she laughed full out. “Oh, your dad! He's a fine one. Saying things like that. Hamish McPhee is…”

“A dork?”

She laughed. “No, Nicole. I was going to say he's a very nice young man. Let me see, what's he studying again…?”

“Podiatry. He's studying to be a foot doctor. Which, I assure you, is nothing like a brain surgeon, though you wouldn't know it to talk to him.”

We laughed together.

“So, okay then. You're not here to meet up with Hamish. I understand. What
are
you doing here then? Mind, I love to see you, but we don't usually see you like this on a weekday. Is everything all right?”

Like I said, I'm lucky. And here's another one of the ways. My family is terrific. The older I get, the tighter my friendship with my mom seems to grow. My dad is strong and sweet and supportive. My brother and I travel in different circles, but he's human and decent and has grown to be a good man.

So I
could
have dumped all my troubles onto my mom. She would not only have listened, but helped me sort them out. But she was preparing a nice lunch, looking forward to an afternoon chatting with her girlfriends. And there would probably be lots of wine. For my mom, this was party time, and I didn't want to mess it up with my problems. And I
really, really
didn't want to bump into Vivienne McPhee.

“Sure, sure, Mom,” I said. “Everything's just fine. I had to leave the office on a story and since I was in my car anyway…”

“You thought you'd look in on me and your dad. How nice! Sorry I don't have more time to spend, dear. Stir that pot. That's right, the one at the back. Stir it just a bit.”

“Where's Dad?” I asked as I stirred. But I knew already.

Mom just looked at me, her eyebrows raised.

“Golf,” I said.

My mom nodded.

“Where today?” I asked.

“Who knows? Oh, he tells me, but I don't always listen anymore. They're one like another to me, you know.”

I laughed. I knew. My father had always been a bit of a golfer, but since he'd retired, he'd gone at it like a job. Most days he was out of the house by five or six o'clock in the morning, doing whatever golfing things required early-morning attention.

He'd generally be back by early to midafternoon and then he and mom would potter about together. They liked to shop. They liked to eat out. They liked to drive to the ocean and walk together. And they traveled a bit, but never without Dad's clubs.

“Right then,” I said, giving the contents of the pot a final twirl. “I suppose I should get back to the office at some point.”

My mom cleaned her hands, then crossed the kitchen to give me a hug. “Well, nice to see you, my girl. Are you sure you won't stay and have a wee chinwag with Viv?”

I stood back and looked down into her eyes and could see she was teasing me.

“Ummm…you know I'd love to, Mom…”

“Of course you would.” There was a glint in her eye, laughter on her face. “You're just busy, is all. I'll tell her as much.” Then I saw the laughter fade away. My mother looked suddenly serious and taller than her five foot one.

“Listen, my girl, I've a feeling you didn't come here today to talk about my hen party or your dad's golf.” I started to protest, but she stopped me. “No, no, it's fine. I'm not going to press. I've just, as I said, a feeling. When you want, you come back and talk. Meanwhile, my darling, be careful.”

TWELVE

I
got back to my car, saw Itani's envelope sitting on the seat and had another thought.

“Mom, before I bounce,” I said, back inside the house, “will you just take a quick look at this? See if you know what it is?”

“Sure, dear,” she said. If she was curious, she kept it to herself. “I'll have a go.”

I pulled the photo out of its envelope. She didn't hesitate. “Why, it's an ice pick,” she said.

“An ice pick?” I repeated. “What's that? For mountaineering or something?”

“Oh no. Not at all. It's a kitchen tool. From long ago. They've not been in use in this country for a hundred years, I'd imagine. But I saw them at home when I was a lass.”

“Used for…” I prompted.

“Chipping at ice, of course.”

“Of course.”

“No, truly. For making the block of ice fit in the coldbox, before there was such a thing as an electric fridge. Or for knocking a bit off for a drink and so on.”

“You mean, like, in an icebox?”

“That's right.”

“So it's a kitchen tool, you said?”

“I did.”

Somehow, that made sense.

THIRTEEN

M
y maternal grandmother, long since departed, had what some call “the sight.” I thought about that as I drove west along Broadway.

Granny Auden was, as my mom liked to say, “a wee bit funny.” Which isn't to say she had a sense of humor. She did
not
. But she saw things in a different way.

When I was a kid, I used to wish that Granny's talent or gift would somehow rub off on me. But though I gave it serious thought and even a bit of practice, none of Granny Auden's witchiness was ever mine. I was ordinary. Average even then.

My mother though. That was a different story. She was not wildly psychic. Mom's was a more gentle gift. She got feelings. Hunches. Like just now, when she'd looked into my eyes and told me to be careful. It wasn't like the warning another mother might give—a general warning against life's hidden dangers. Experience told me it was best to pay attention.

I found myself heading for the gallery. It was unlikely I'd find anything there, but I needed a starting point. And I couldn't think of a better place than at the beginning.

When he saw me, Sam's face lit up. “Why, if it isn't Nicole at Night! In the day, no less.” He ushered me in. “What brings you to my humble place of business?”

The gallery looked different in the daylight. Smaller, somehow, without a crush of people filling it. Steve Marsh's show was still hung. As I looked around, I saw a lot of red dots.

“Everything is sold?” I said.

“It's sad, but yes, death will do that for an artist. The phone has been ringing off the hook all day. Suddenly everyone wants to get in.” His hands fluttered helplessly. “And in this case, even more so, I think. It was so…
dramatic
, wasn't it? Him dying in the alley like that. It will be the talk of the town all month.”

I made a mental note. As his dealer, Sam would have had something to gain from Marsh's death. Something financial. I looked the small man over carefully and decided that as far as suspects went, Sam wasn't much of one.

“But you haven't told me,” he continued, “what brings you here today.”

“I'm investigating the story,” I said, trying to convince even myself. “The story of Steve Marsh's death.”

“Oh.” That hand again. “Oh, I see. I thought…that is to say…”

“You thought I only did the society pages.”

“Well, I guess. But also, a reporter from your paper was here first thing this morning. He gave me the impression he was covering the story.”

“We both kind of are.” It wasn't
exactly
the truth, yet it was. I
was
covering the story. Brent just didn't know it yet. Nor did the city editor. But don't bother me with details. “We have…different perspectives.”

I could see that Sam bought this. The inner workings of a newspaper are mysterious enough to most people that I didn't expect a lot of questions.

“In that case, I'll do everything I can to help. Of course. Steve Marsh was a very special client of mine. I just don't know what I can tell you that I didn't already tell Mr. Hartigan.”

“That's okay. You can tell me the same stuff you told him. Sometimes, in the retelling, new details come to light. You said Steve was a special client. Let's start with that.”

“Well, I discovered him.” Sam thought for a second before continuing. “That's saying too much. He'd been painting for years before he tried to get representation. But when he showed me his work”—Sam put a hand to his collarbone, made that fluttering motion—“I just
swooned
.” He led me over to the largest painting in the gallery. It was hung right in the center of the big space, on a wall suspended from the ceiling. Even last night, amid the crowd, I'd noticed both the piece and the pride of place.

The painting was huge. The background was bold, all angry reds and glaring greens. Slightly to the left of center was a young man, painted as though by a classical master. Dressed in torn jeans, a bandanna wrapped around his head. Unposed. He stood facing the artist boldly, as though he might spring from the canvas and punch anyone who got in his way. On one level, it was a portrait. But somehow, it was so much more. I said as much to Sam.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “That's it exactly, isn't it? Another artist could make this painting and it would be ordinary. But”—Sam shook his head sadly—“Steve saw the beauty in this. He saw it and incorporated everything one could see. And perhaps everything that couldn't be seen.”

This confused me. “How can you paint what you can't see?”

“That's the very essence of art, I think,” he said. “Anyone can paint what anyone can see. But to paint in a way that makes you
feel
something? That's mastery.”

I looked at the title of the painting. “
Eldert
?”

“Yes, yes,” he said again. “Isn't it wonderful? Just
Eldert
. So in a sense, it is just a painting of this young man. And yet…”

“Who is he?” I asked. “Who is Eldert?”

Sam looked at me, surprised. “You don't know much about this artist then?”

I shook my head.

He went over to a rack at the side of the gallery and pulled out a brochure. I wasn't surprised to see that
Eldert
had been chosen to adorn the cover. It was a powerful work. “Here, you can read this. It'll explain Steve's work and, in a sense, the man.”

“Thanks. Can I take this?”

Sam nodded.

I tucked it into my bag. “Did you know Steve's girlfriend? Caitlen Benton-Harris?”

“Yes, of course. I've met her on many occasions.” It was possibly my imagination, but I thought I saw a moue of distaste.

“Did you see her here last night?” I asked.

Sam pondered for a moment. “Now that you mention it,” he said finally, “I didn't. Hmmmm…that's odd.”

By the time Caitlen had arrived, Steve was dead and Sam was occupied elsewhere.

“Do you know where I can find her?”

“I'm sorry, but I don't. She'd show up with Steve sometimes. I don't have a number for her. I had no reason to call her.”

“Of course. What does she do?” I asked. “Where does she work?”

“She's an artist too. She once asked me to represent her.”

“And you wouldn't?”

“No. Not then. The work was too raw,” he explained, “too unfinished. I told her to come back when she had some more miles on her. Honestly, though? I was being kind. I didn't see anything that made me think she had what it takes.”

“And what does it take?” I asked.

“Well, a lot of things, really. But one thing is key. Talent.”

“You're saying she lacked talent?”

“It sounds harsh, I suppose. But yes. I guess that's it all right.”

“And Steve had that?”

“Talent? Oh yes! Steve did. And so much more. You never met him?”

I shook my head, trying not to think of the dead man in his car. That didn't count.

“Steve was…well, he was extraordinary. I don't know how else to say it.”

There was something in Sam's face. Or a shadow of something.

“You guys were close?”

“Oh no. Not really.” Sam shrugged. “I was his dealer. That is a special relationship in its own right.”