Murder At The Mendel (20 page)

I followed her across the room, but at the doorway I turned and looked back. The twelve women in the toothy masks were still standing there, staring at the broken roses and the delicate shards of blue and white and gilt. They looked like something left over from an old Ernie Kovacs
TV
show.

We checked the Chablis and decided that since there were three other wines being served, drinks before dinner and liqueurs afterwards, people would just have to make do. By the time we told a janitor about the broken vase and reassured Stephen Orchard, the first invited guests had arrived. Soon the gallery was filled with the scent of expensive perfumes, the rustle of evening clothes and the sounds of people laughing and calling to one another in greeting. The string quartet switched from Ravel to Cole Porter, and the evening had begun.

It seemed that everyone wore red. Nina wore a dress I remembered from the sixties, a slim, sculptured Balenciaga evening gown of velvet as lustrously red as a spring tulip. She had worn that dress to the rehearsal dinner the night before my wedding. She had been lovely then and she was lovely now. Now, as then, her dark hair was swept back, and there were pearls at her throat and earlobes. But tonight she
looked worn, and I felt a pang when I thought of how little I had seen her since I’d come out of the hospital. There’d been a lot going on in my life, but obviously the past few weeks had been troubling ones for Nina, and I should have been there to help her.

Stuart wore a red tie and cummerbund with his tux. He was in an odd mood – jumpy and overly solicitous with Nina and me until Sally came in, when he walked away from us without a backward glance.

Not many people would have blamed him. In one of those ironies that revealed she was Nina’s daughter after all, Sally had chosen something from the sixties, too. But where Nina had chosen a classic gown that paid homage to the timelessness of good design, Sally’s outfit was pure costume, a sexy joke that raised a finger to people who took fashion seriously. She was wearing a one-piece jumpsuit, white lace appliquéd on some sort of stretchy net with matching leggings. There wasn’t much lace in the jumpsuit, but there was a lot of net and a lot of Sally. Later she told me her outfit was a Rudi Gernreich, and I smiled at the memories of see-through blouses, topless bathing suits and promises of revolution.

From the moment she came in, Stuart was all over Sally – leaving his arm around her shoulders after the initial greeting, bending his face close to hers when she talked, stroking her hair with his hand. Finally, laughing, she shook him off, the way a woman shakes off a drunk at a party. But Stuart Lachlan wasn’t drunk, and he wouldn’t be shaken off. When Sally started in the direction of the bar, he followed her, still trying somehow to get his hands on her. It was as if he was afraid to leave her alone. Nina and I watched the scene in silence.

“Whatever do you make of that display, Ni?” I asked. But she didn’t answer; she just watched the space where they had been with an expression I couldn’t fathom.

And then there was another tableau. Kyle, the gallery guard, had approached Izaak Levin. They were across the room, and I couldn’t hear their conversation, but when Izaak limped toward us, Kyle watched him thoughtfully.

When Izaak Levin joined us, I was amazed at the change in him. I hadn’t seen him since the day of the accident, five weeks ago, but he looked twenty years older. He skin had a greyish cast and he seemed distinctly unwell. Selling his integrity was apparently taking its toll. We had just started talking when an old friend from the political days came over, full of excitement, to introduce me to her new husband. By the time I turned back to Izaak, he and Nina had moved to the side of the room. He was whispering something in her ear and he had his hand on her arm. When finally he walked away, Nina scrubbed at the place where his hand had rested as if she had been touched by something loathsome.

Loathsome or not, when it came time for dinner, Izaak Levin was seated at Sally’s right, and on his right was Nina. I was at their table, and we were an uncomfortable grouping. Stuart was on Sally’s left, and I was beside him. Next to me was Hugh Rankin-Carter, the art critic. On his left was Hilda McCourt. She’d positioned herself beside the only person I’d never met at our table, a woman named Annie Christensen, who had parlayed a smart marriage and a genius for mathematics into a substantial fortune. She was known as a generous supporter of the arts, and it was no accident that, boy-girl seating be damned, Hilda had put her at the table with the star of the evening.

The meal was magnificent, but dinner was not a pleasant affair. Hugh Rankin-Carter was a man with real power in the art world, and Annie Christensen was a philanthropist with deep pockets; the fact that both were seated at our table was apparently too much for Izaak and Stu. A tense rivalry, part professional, part sexual, seemed to spring up between them.

Whatever his faults, Izaak Levin had always been a witty and self-effacing man, but that night he told pointless repetitive stories whose sole purpose seemed to be to lament the brilliant career he’d given up for Sally and to celebrate his influence on her art. Not to be outdone, Stu quoted long passages of analysis from his book.

Sally sat between them looking trapped and miserable. She was patient longer than I would have thought possible, but finally she turned on Stu. At first she kept her voice low.

“Okay, Stu, that’s enough. You’re boring the tits off everybody. Now be still, and listen to me for a minute. You might actually learn something. No matter what that ridiculous book of yours says, I’m not some sort of holy innocent the great god of art drips paint through. I actually know what I’m doing.” Her voice rose with anger. “I told you last night I can’t believe you could have lived with me five years without understanding one single thing about what I do. Damn it, Stu, if I could put what I see into words, why would I paint it?” She shook her head in exasperation, and when she spoke again, her voice was weary. “Look, the best thing to do with that book is junk it. If it doesn’t come out, nobody will be the wiser, but if you actually let that stuff get published, everybody is going to know you’re …”

“Dumb as shit.” Hugh Rankin-Carter smiled as he finished the sentence for her.

Izaak Levin poured himself a glass of wine and laughed. “Not bad, Hughie,” he said.

Sally looked at him with anger. “You’re no better, Izaak. All that whining about how you sacrificed your career for mine. Tell me, when was the last time you earned a dime that wasn’t connected to me?”

In one of those terrible moments that happen at parties, the room was suddenly quiet, and Sally’s words, bell clear, hung in the air.

Izaak’s face sagged. Across the table, I was surprised to see a flicker of pleasure cross Nina Love’s face.

A woman I recognized from Clea’s funeral had been moving from group to group taking pictures. She came over to our table.

“Not now, Anya,” Sally said, but the woman kept snapping away until Sally flared and told her to get lost.

The rolled veal arrived, savoury and tender enough to cut with a fork, but the misery continued at our table. Stuart sat silent, his face a mask carved by humiliation. Izaak Levin drifted into the self-pitying phase of drunkenness, talking incoherently about how Sally could never begin to understand all the things he had done to protect her. Finally, he lurched off to the men’s room. When he came back, his fly was undone and Sally, with a savage look, bent over and zipped him up.

“It’s over, Izaak. No use advertising any more.”

In my two brief encounters with him, Hugh Rankin-Carter had struck me more as gadfly than peacemaker, but the crosscurrents at our table became so menacing that even he tried to pour oil on the troubled waters. After Sally’s outburst, Hugh leaned across to Nina and asked her to tell him about the early fifties when Des Love had scandalized Toronto the Good with his bold and sensual paintings.

Nina was a gifted storyteller but that night she told one story remotely and badly, and when Sally corrected her on a detail, Nina excused herself and left the table. As she moved behind Sally’s chair, a flashbulb went off in her face, and I saw her freeze as if she’d been shot.

Only Hilda McCourt and Annie Christensen seemed immune to the tensions. They ate with gusto and chatted happily about art and theatre. I envied them, and I was relieved when the table was cleared and the only course left was dessert. Stephen Orchard was known for the dramatic presentation of dessert at the parties he catered.

Certainly, no one in the room that night would ever forget the arrival of his coeurs à la crème fraîche. The lights were extinguished, leaving the room illuminated only by the candles blazing in hurricane lamps at the centre of each table. The string quartet struck up “My Funny Valentine,” and a half-dozen red heart-shaped spotlights focused on the entrance to the tea salon. Through the door came a procession of waiters carrying silver trays. As the waiters moved to the tables, the spotlights swept the room. It was a knockout.

Our waiter swooped dramatically in front of Sally, picked up the first dessert and began to serve. There were eight glass plates on the tray; at the centre of each plate was a creamy heart surrounded by strawberry sauce. When we all had one, Hugh Rankin-Carter leaned across to me.

“Tacky but effective,” he said.

It happened just at that moment. The spotlights were turned off, but in the darkness we could see figures running. They moved quickly, blowing out the candles that were the only light in the room. Soon the room was in total darkness, but not before everyone in it had had a good look at the Guerrilla Girls in action.

Afterwards, we learned that most people thought they were part of the entertainment. Whatever the explanation, no one was particularly upset. For a few seconds there was nervous laughter, then people lit the candles at their tables, and it was over.

Except it wasn’t over. The Guerrilla Girls had left a large red envelope on each table, and you could hear the intake of breath around the room as people opened them. Sally ripped open ours, looked quickly at the poster that was inside, then handed it to me. She looked shaken but defiant.

“Jo, we should have pounded them into the ground when we had the chance.”

I looked at the poster. It was black and white, like the others, but this one had an illustration, a blowup of what must have been a police photo of Clea Poole the night she was murdered. She was naked, lying face down on the barbed wire bridal bed. Underneath in heavy black letters were the words, “Remembering a martyr to women’s art on Valentine’s Day.”

I shuddered, but I tried to match Sally’s tone. “There’ll be other chances,” I said.

Hugh Rankin-Carter took the poster by two fingers, shook his head in disgust and dropped it in a leather bag that was the twin of the one he’d given Sally the night of the opening.

“Pathetic,” he said. “But if they want recognition, I’ll write a column about them. And I’ll be sure to mention that the one who reached in front of me has apparently taken a philosophical stand against deodorant.” He turned to Sally. “Don’t let them ruin your party, Sal. My grandfather always said, ‘Life is uncertain, eat dessert first.’ Now, be a good girl and eat your coeur before it melts.”

Sally grinned at him and stuck her spoon into the centre of her perfect heart. She swallowed the first bite, then waved her spoon at Hugh.

“Yum,” she said.

She was right. I began eating my dessert and listening to the conversation between Hilda McCourt and Annie Christensen. I don’t know when I knew something was wrong. At some point, I looked over and saw that Sally had pushed her chair back from the table. There was an odd stricken look on her face. Then she reached down as if she were searching for something on the floor. When she sat up, her eyes were wide with fear. She braced herself against the table as if she were afraid of falling.

I started toward her.

“Sal?” I said.

“I need my bag,” she said. “I’m having a reaction to something in the food.”

I dived under the table. It was hard to see in the darkness. Stu was already under there raking the floor with his hands. Sally’s purse wasn’t there.

“Somebody get a doctor,” I said, and I went over to Sally. She was slumped in her chair, and her breathing was laboured. She looked at me in terror.

“I can’t get air in,” she said.

I stroked her cheek. “It’ll be all right,” I said. “They’re getting a doctor.”

The gallery had set up a microphone for people to make thank-you speeches at the end of dinner, and as if on cue, I heard the soft American voice of Hugh Rankin-Carter asking if there was a doctor in the house.

There were seven medical doctors in the room that night: three urologists, the plastic surgeon who had sewn my face up after the accident, a proctologist and two psychiatrists. A few drops of epinephrine would have saved Sally’s life, but there was no epinephrine in that room. Sally’s evening bag with the emergency supply she always carried with her had disappeared, and none of the doctors had come to the party prepared to meet death. I could hear one of them calling for an ambulance; she was very specific in her instructions about the epinephrine, but it didn’t matter, because by the time the ambulance attendants ran into the room, Sally was dead.

She died slowly and in mortal terror. She deserved better.

Izaak Levin was luckier. His death was quick. When the ambulance attendants began loading Sally’s body on their stretcher, Izaak made a little crying sound and fell to the floor. The doctors tried
CPR
. They struggled over him for what seemed to me to be a painfully long time, but nothing worked.

“Heart,” one of the doctors said laconically as he stood up and turned away from Izaak’s body. “He just wasn’t salvageable.”

Ours was the last table the police let go. The people at our table were interviewed separately and then together, but the police seemed less interested in our relationship with Sally than in the Guerrilla Girls, and we were questioned again and again about the sequence of events that began with the second dousing of the lights and the entrance of the Guerrilla Girls and ended with Sally’s death. Finally, they told us we were free to leave.