Immortal Muse (46 page)

Camille took a breath, pushing herself off from the wall. As with the last time she'd been here, she could sense that Morris was utterly absorbed in his work. She walked to the open door of the studio, peering into the large, high space. Morris was sitting on a stool, leaning forward as he worked in a shaft of sunlight spearing through the huge southern-facing windows. What had been mostly an empty armature when she'd last seen it was now a full-fledged clay sculpture nearly ready—she suspected—to be prepared for casting.

Vengeance
. That was the title Nicolas had given Morris to work with. Now she stared at two nude figures, male and female, locked in a titanic physical struggle. Like most of Morris' figures, they were preternaturally thin, nearly skeletal, as if their god had stretched them on a cosmic rack. The man's hands were locked around the woman's throat while she pushed back on his chest and neck, tendons standing out in her arms. One of her legs wrapped around his hip, the other was trapped between the man's legs, and she was bent over backward by the force of his attack. Their faces were what drew her the most: his was snarling with manic energy, and yet there was a softness to his eyes as he stared at the woman. And the woman: her mouth was open in a silent scream. There was terror on her face but yet that expression was also tinged with acceptance.

And it was
her
face. While the man was no one that she recognized, the woman's features were definitely Camille's. She had no doubt that was a deliberate choice. She wondered who had decided on that: Morris, or Nicolas.

The scene was violent, yes, but it was also strangely erotic at the same time, as if on some level the anger the two figures felt toward one another was also a manifestation of a subverted and twisted love.

Nothing Morris had ever done before had quite the same power as the sculpture she saw now. He'd done something the old Morris wouldn't have been capable of. This was his masterwork. It seemed that anger might be as powerful a daemon as herself.

“That's very impressive,” she said loudly into the room, pitching her voice to cut through the music. Morris' head snapped toward her, a double-ended clay-shaping loop in his hand. At first his face looked furious, then he seemed to fold up the expression and put it away, the lines of his face smoothing. He placed the tool on the tray next to him and touched the iPad connected to the stereo system; the music died suddenly, leaving behind an aural void.

“Hey, Camille,” he said. His lips twisted as if he were deciding whether or not to smile. He ran a hand over his shaved skull. “Back from Mexico, eh?” He put far too much emphasis on “Mexico.”

“We went to France instead,” she told him.

“Yeah, that's what I heard.”

“The tequila was a nice touch, though.”

He looked at her quizzically. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” She entered the studio fully and walked around the sculpture in front of him. He watched her as she moved, his gaze never leaving her. “I wasn't joking: this is a powerful piece, Morris. Really impressive.”

“I know,” he said. It was simply a statement of fact with no sense of braggadocio or ego. If anything, he sounded more reverential than anything else, as if he were more in awe of the accomplishment than anyone.

“It's going to cost a fortune to cast, though.”

Now his gaze snapped away from her, looking aside. “Yeah. Well, I'm not worried about that.”

She nodded.
Yes, Nicolas is still involved.
“You're nearly done.”

“Just doing the final touch-ups, then I'll be prepping it.” His nostrils flared with a breath. “Why are you here, Camille? You didn't come to see the sculpture.”

“Actually, I did. Mercedes told me you were still working on it. I thought that after Pierce disappeared you might have given up on it.”

A shrug. “You obviously thought wrong, then.”

“He's still paying you to complete the work, isn't he?”

He regarded her with his head tilted sideways, still seated on his stool. “Why does that matter to you one way or the other? Why do you care?”

“Because I'd really like to get in touch with Pierce, or whatever he's calling himself now.”

“Why? You thinking like the cops, now? You figure you might get a reward for turning him in? You think he offed your boyfriend's wife?”

“What's between Pierce and me is personal. We've known each other for a long time. He's the one who told you to use my face on the sculpture, isn't he?”

A smile ghosted across his lips. “You noticed, eh? Yeah. He did. Not that I minded. Seemed a good choice. I don't think Pierce likes you much—which takes us back to my last question. Why do you want to contact him? You planning to mess him up? You hoping that then I won't have the money for this?” He gestured at the sculpture. “I didn't think you hated
me,
too.”

“I don't hate you, Morris. I never have. I think you're incredibly talented.” She glanced again at the sculpture. “I think you're more talented than I realized, actually.”

He nodded as if considering that. “Well, wouldn't matter anyway. I've already been paid what I need to finish this. And you gave me inspiration,” he said with a bitter laugh. “Even gone, you managed to do that.”

“Then pay me back for that,” she told him. “Let Pierce know that I want to meet with him. I promise it's not about any payments to you, and I promise it's got nothing to do with the cops. Can you tell him that much?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Are you telling me we're friends again, Camille? Are you telling me that things are back to the way they were?” His voice had lost its edge of anger and gone soft. His hand lifted as if he wanted to touch her, then fell back again. She took a step toward him; he remained seated on the stool. Her legs nearly touched his knees.

“I won't lie to you. I'm with David, Morris. Only David. Right now, that's the way it has to be—I can't look any further into the future to know when or if that might change. I'm sorry.”

“Yeah. So am I,” he answered.

“You don't know how to get in contact with Pierce? You don't have an address, email, phone number, anything?”

Morris shook his head. “Sorry.”

She nodded and stepped back again. That was it, then. She could hire another private investigator to watch Morris' studio in case Nicolas came there, or maybe she could call Detective Palento, let her know that Nicolas might be in contact with Morris. But knowing Nicolas, that would be dangerous for Morris—if Nicolas noticed the police watching, he might think that it was Morris who tipped off the police, and she knew what Nicolas tended to do with people who got in his way. “It was good seeing you, Morris,” she said. “It really is an incredible work you've done here. I hope it brings you the recognition you deserve. I mean that sincerely.”

He said nothing. He was staring at the sculpture, not her. She started to leave the studio, her footsteps loud on the worn planks of the floor.

“Camille,” Morris said behind her, “how can Pierce get in touch with you? If I do hear from him, that is.”

She stopped. Turned. “Tell Pierce that I'll check in at my old apartment regularly. He can send a message there, or to my e-mail.”

“It might be awhile. It's not like I see the guy much. But he said he'd be back, to look at the sculpture when I got this part done.”

She smiled. “Thanks, Morris. I appreciate it.”

He nodded. He touched his iPad again, and the music thundered in mid-phrase. He picked up one of the tools from the tray.

Camille watched him for a few minutes, then left the studio without another word.

 * * * 

Camille felt the touch of the woman's soul-heart as she stepped onto the sidewalk outside Morris' studio. “Detective Palento,” she said, without turning around. “Somehow we keep bumping into each other.”

Palento was leaning against the corner of the building as Camille turned. She saw her partner across the street in a parked car. The detective pushed her sunglasses over her short hair as she approached Camille. “It's strange how that keeps happening, isn't it?” she said. “Strange, too, how you'd show up at the studio of a guy that Pierce dropped several large ones on.”

“You're following the money.”

Palento nodded. “And here it's led me to you. Again.”

“I told you, Detective, Pierce is the guy who was stalking me; you'd have to expect him to be around people that I'm also around. I don't think that's so strange. Besides, it saves me having to call you.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “How's that?”

“Morris told me that Pierce said he'd be back here to look at the sculpture sometime soon; he wants to see the completed clay model before he gets it ready to cast. If you and your friend stick around here, he might show up.” She didn't tell the woman that she doubted that Nicolas would be stupid enough to simply walk into Morris' studio without taking precautions: she remembered how he'd used a spell to make someone else appear to be Robespierre, how he'd shown her the same enchantment on the statue in King Square. She assumed he'd be able to do the same again for long enough to stroll into the studio looking like someone else entirely. Worse, he'd have other, far more dangerous spells prepared, though he'd be less likely to use them in public. “The two of you need to be less obvious, though,” she told Palento. “If you do see Pierce, I'd be extremely careful. He's a very dangerous man.”

“We'll do that,” Palento said, but her tone indicated to Camille that she considered Pierce no more dangerous than any other person. Camille wanted to warn her that such an attitude might cost her more than she'd wish to pay, but the appraising look in Palento's eyes made Camille press her lips together.

“Good,” she said, curtly. “Are we done, then?”

Palento gave her a frosted smile from lips touched with pale red, and stepped back, theatrically waving along the sidewalk. “You're free to go, Ms. Kenny,” she said.

Camille started to pass the detective, who stepped into the street, ready to go back to her partner's car. Camille stopped. She found Palento's gaze and held it. “I meant what I said,” she told the woman. “Please don't take Pierce lightly. I'm afraid that's what Mr. Walters might have done.”

“Are you saying now that you're
certain
Pierce killed Bob? Do you have any evidence or proof of that?”

Camille shook her head. “No, but if Mr. Walters knew some of what you know and confronted Pierce, then Pierce would do whatever he needed to do to keep his identity intact. I know him well enough to say that, and I can tell that's what you think, also.”

Palento gave her the faintest of nods. “Ms. Kenny, look, if there's
anything
you can give us regarding Pierce . . .”

Camille wanted to smile.
Nothing I'd tell you would be anything you'd believe.
“Just . . . be very careful with him. I can't prove it, but I'm certain he's responsible for both Mr. Walters' and Helen's deaths. He can't . . . won't hurt me, but those around me . . . They're not entirely safe right now.”

For the first time, Camille thought she saw a trace of sympathy in Palento's eyes. “Ms. Kenny, why don't we sit somewhere and just
talk.
You and me, as two people, not as detective and suspect. Tell me all about Pierce and your history with him. Maybe there's something in that to help us, something you don't even know is important . . .”

Camille was already shaking her head before the woman finished. “No,” she said. “Maybe sometime, but not right now. If I think of something, I'll call you. I promise.”

Palento sighed audibly. “Ms. Kenny, I have lots of practice at reading people. You're pretty good at hiding what you're feeling—better than most, actually—but I can still tell that you're scared and worried. Why not let me help you?”

For a moment, Camille was tempted. She
wanted
to unburden herself, to share with some other person all the centuries of fear and pain that she'd experienced. She could feel it all inside her, wanting to burst out, and Palento's soul-heart tugged at her, drawing her toward its warmth and sustenance.

But she couldn't. Shouldn't. She shook her head doggedly. “I'll call you if I think of something,” she said again. “Just be very careful.” With that, she started to walk quickly away, almost expecting that Palento would call after her, or maybe try to stop her.

But she didn't. She could feel the woman's appraising stare on her back as she fled.

 * * * 

She'd started Vivaldi playing on her stereo system; the soothing, intricate counterpoint of
L'estro Armonico
washing over the apartment. She'd picked up more of her clothing and personal items from the apartment, stuffing them into a laundry basket which was now sitting near the door, ready to take them over to David's apartment.

She sat on the couch in her apartment with Verdette on her lap, one hand scissoring her pendant between her fingers. On the wall across from her was a framed reproduction of one of Blake's paintings:
The Temptation And Fall Of Eve.
There, the tree stood between Adam and Eve; Adam had his back turned, while the serpent coiled around Eve's naked body, the fruit held in the snake's mouth and pressed against Eve's open mouth. It was strangely erotic and dangerous at the same time. Camille stared at it as she stroked Verdette's fur.

Verdette purred, her eyes closed while her front paws kneaded Camille's thigh. “Ouch,” she said, disengaging a claw that had become hooked in the fabric of her jeans. “It's time for a trimming, girl. I know you hate it.”

Camille heard a knock at the door. “Just a moment,” Camille called out. Verdette, irritated at the interruption, leaped from Camille's lap as she rose from the couch, putting the pendant back under her T-shirt. No one had buzzed for entry, so it was probably Mrs. Darcy from the other side of the hall wanting to borrow something. Still . . . She glanced toward the table in the breakfast nook; her purse was there, with the Ladysmith in it. She thought for a moment about retrieving it.
No, Nicolas wouldn't knock; he'd be less subtle than that. For that matter, he wouldn't
need
to knock.