Death of an Artist (25 page)

“That's good,” she said reluctantly. “He really will love it and we should start doing things again, I guess.” She resumed painting.

*   *   *

T
HAT MORNING
T
ONY
spent some time probing Dale's computer. He stopped abruptly and logged off. “What difference does it make?” he asked himself savagely. Dale had twenty-one hundred and change in his bank account, four credit cards, two maxed out, two close to the edge. He was making minimum payments only. He had two porno sites with their own passwords.

Tony went out to his balcony. Dale might not go for a negotiated agreement first; he might decide he had to take some action as soon as he found out about the audit. And he, Tony, had put Van, Marnie, and Josh at risk.

If Dale did decide to take action, it would have to be here in Silver Bay. No way could he lure both Van and Marnie to a meeting in Portland or anywhere else. And he wouldn't come here in his flashy convertible, dressed in a designer suit. The locals would watch him like a poisonous snake. He would use one of those fake IDs, an alias. Tony went inside to study the printouts of the credit cards and driver's licenses again, Daniel Olson and Dominick Orsini. Both had darker hair than Dale, Dominick's quite a bit darker, and he had what looked like a three- or four-day stubble of a beard. Olson had a bad haircut, with hair standing almost upright on the top of his head. His eyebrows were heavy and nearly black, and he wore black-framed eyeglasses. He also had a stubble of a beard. Of course, Tony thought. That cleft chin. Hide it.

The most interesting thing about the cards, Tony knew, was that they both were still active, with expiration dates one or three years from then. Dale had kept them active, had used them enough, paid them off on time, and kept them. For what purpose? To buy illicit items? In case of emergency? Just to have if the need arose to go somewhere else fast? To hide his movements?

Possibly if Tony continued to unravel the various passwords, he would come to the credit card activities, but he had decided it didn't matter. They were active, and that did matter.

He nodded, put the printouts away, and left his apartment to drive to the motel access road. In each motel, and the motel that called itself an inn, he told the same story. What quickly became evident was that Will had prepared the ground for him by spreading the word about Tony's past. He told people some things they should know, Tony reflected, remembering Will's words. In this instance he was grateful for Will's need to talk.

“I'm not wholly retired,” he said to the four motel managers he talked to. “More like an extended leave of absence. Recently I had a call from a colleague back East who mentioned that a guy they were looking for might be headed this way. Since I'm on the spot, he asked me to let him know if the guy comes through here. Seems they want to ask him some questions about a possible white-collar crime or some kind of fraud back East, and they've had reports that he's been moving up the coast, maybe headed for Canada. He isn't considered dangerous, and they want to keep it quiet, but to be informed if he shows. I said I'd pass the word to the motels in the area. All I'd want is to be called if he makes a reservation or simply shows up wanting a room. I'll call the state troopers, if that's the case, and they will handle it very quietly. I don't expect it to happen. It's a real long shot, but no harm done in keeping an eye out for him.”

There usually were a few questions along about then, which he parried with no trouble. No one questioned his right to make such a request.

“He's been using two different names, and we don't know which one he'd use if he turns up,” he told them.

“Better not just turn up,” Lorinne Hadley said. She was the manager of the Silver Moon Motel. “This time of year, with the Fourth coming, there usually aren't any spare rooms to be found. He'll need a reservation anywhere along the coast.”

“Even better. That will give us some time to prepare for him.” Tony gave them his cell phone number and the two names, made sure the managers spelled them right, and that was done.

Aware that Van would leave to pick up Josh at day care a few minutes before four, he waited until nearly three-thirty to drop in at the rear house on the ridge.

Marnie let him in and asked, “Anything new?”

“A little. Is Van around?”

“She's washing up. She painted Josh's room today. Come on back, Tony.” She led the way to the living room. The completed train was on the coffee table. “He's anxious to start painting it,” Marnie said when Tony stopped to admire the train. “He wanted to stay home from day care and do it, but we said no. He loves his train, Tony. He's so proud that he put it together by himself. What a wonderful thing to give him. Did you have a train set when you were small?”

“Yeah,” Tony said softly, remembering the train setup he, his sister, and his father had put together in the basement. Mountains, tunnels, houses on hills, a church … His mother had started to complain that it was a menace when she was doing the laundry. He was telling Marnie about it when he became aware that Van had come down, stopped at the door, and was listening.

“That was a long time ago,” he said. “What I came to tell you is a little about those contracts. He has eleven artists signed up, and for every batch of three or four paintings he sells to a corporation, he is paid five thousand. He pays his artists one thousand and keeps four. He lives in an upscale, high-rent apartment, and payments for various things are coming due the first of the month.” Just two days away, he realized. June was nearly over.

“He will be feeling more and more pressured,” he warned, “so keep your eyes open. Don't let him in, and don't talk to him if he comes here. Just give me a call and I'll come over.”

Marnie's mouth was a grim line, and Van nodded. “Inviting him in for coffee is not in our game plan,” she said bitterly. “Not unless it's laced with strychnine.”

“Tony, we're invited to a big potluck on the Fourth,” Marnie said, as if eager to change the subject. “Some old friends always have an open house for it, and you'd be welcome as our guest to watch the fireworks over Newport Bay.”

He thanked her politely and declined the invitation.

Marnie had a flash of memory. Stef had wanted Dale to join the group one year and he had said, “A potluck? How very Norman Rockwell.” He had not gone.

Van looked at her watch and said she had to go, and Tony said he'd be on his way, too. He was thinking furiously. The Fourth of July, fireworks, people shooting guns, strangers all over town … What a perfect setting for Daniel Olson or Dominick Orsini. Sound effects guaranteed.

*   *   *

F
REDDI
CALLED
V
AN
on Wednesday. “The auditor was already here when Dale came in. He turned white, I swear, dead white, and he began to say things like common decency required that I give him a little warning, to let him make sure everything was up-to-date.

“Sometimes he lets things slide until the end of the month, things like that. I told him I'd talked to Hiram Delacroix and I wanted to be able to reassure him that everything was all right with the gallery. Then the man came to change the locks, and I thought Dale would roll on the floor kicking and screaming or something. He was shaking, he was so mad, and he took off. So now he knows.” Freddi was almost breathless.

When Van hung up, she repeated what Freddi had said to Marnie and added faintly, “The ball's in his court. His move.”

It wasn't long in coming. Van had taken Josh to day care and planned to grocery shop after dropping him off. Marnie was making curtains for Josh's room, a train motif on a blue background to go with the primrose-yellow walls and blue trim. She rose to answer the doorbell that late morning.

“Ms. Markov?” her caller said. He was in his midfifties, she guessed, with nice gray hair, wearing a handsome pale-gray sport coat and darker slacks, a white shirt open at the throat. He was well tanned and looked trim and fit.

“I'm Marnie Markov,” she said, without opening the door to invite him inside.

“My name is Lionel Moulton, representing Mr. Dale Oliver in that unfortunate misunderstanding about a contract. May I come in to outline some proposals Mr. Oliver has agreed to put forward to resolve this issue?”

“Please, excuse me just a moment,” Marnie said. “I'll be right back.” She closed the door and went to the kitchen counter, where she had placed several of Ted Gladstone's cards. She picked one up and returned to the door, opened it slightly wider than before, and held the card out to the attorney. “This is my attorney's card, his Newport address and phone number. Please contact him with any proposals you may have.”

“Ms. Markov, may I give you some friendly advice? A judge will not look approvingly on your refusal to even consider a compromise in this situation.”

“I'm sure Mr. Gladstone will welcome such advice. Good-bye, Mr. Moulton.” Marnie closed the door and stood with her hand on the knob while she took in several long breaths. She had never been so rude to anyone in her life, she thought with satisfaction when she returned to the kitchen and the phone there to call Ted Gladstone and inform him that Dale's lawyer might be on his way to the office.

Van was putting away groceries when Ted Gladstone called back later. She closed the refrigerator door and listened as Marnie took the call.

“He came,” Ted said jovially, “and Dorothy followed my instructions and told him that I was tied up for the rest of the day and would be out of town until after the Fourth. She suggested that he should mail me his proposals and I'd get in touch next week after my return. She said he was in a snit.”

“Thanks, Ted,” Marnie said. “That sounds just right.”

“I put a draft copy of your will in the mail,” he said. “When you get it, look it over, and if you find it satisfactory, give us a call and we'll arrange a time for you to drop in and sign it. I think it's exactly what we talked about.”

She thanked him again and, after hanging up, repeated the conversation to Van. They were both nervous, and she suspected that Van had done the same things she had done before going to bed the night before. She had gone through both houses, testing the windows, making sure the door stops at the sliding doors were all in place, making sure the doors were all locked, checking outdoor lights to make certain they were on. Also, after Josh had fallen asleep, she had called Tipper out and closed Josh's door all the way, something they never had done before. It was Tipper's time to be a watchdog, Marnie had decided. And finally, she thought grimly, she had done something Van could not have done. When Marnie went to her room the previous night, she had unlocked the desk drawer, removed Ed's old handgun, and put it in the drawer of her bedside table.

Van's .22 was now in a similar drawer in her bedroom, and it was loaded. It only added to her nervousness for fear that Josh might wander into her room and come upon it. She was watching him closely to prevent that.

“I'll call Tony and tell him about Moulton,” Marnie said. Then she added, “I'll be checking locks and everything later. Let's do it together.”

Van nodded and Marnie dialed Tony's number.

*   *   *

W
HEN
D
ALE
STARTED
to curse Moulton over the phone, the attorney interrupted and said, “Mr. Oliver, I did the best I could. I'll be out of the office until July fifth. Why don't you call my secretary and make an appointment for the afternoon then and we'll discuss this, if you wish.”

He hung up and Dale snapped his phone shut. “Goddamn bungling idiot! You botched it, you bastard!” he yelled at the phone.

Idiots and fools! He was surrounded by idiots and fools! That idiot had let a stupid fishwife run the show! He'd warned him that Marnie was out to steal the artwork, that she hated his guts. She and Van both hated his guts for no reason at all, just jealousy and greed. They wanted the paintings for themselves. They wanted to cut him out, grab it all.

That asshole Moulton acted as if he were their goddamn lawyer, Dale thought savagely, thinking of the conversation they'd had when this mess began. “They were perfectly in their rights to order an inventory,” Moulton had said. “Any judge would agree. As long as she is the executor of the art estate, that is her right, and her duty.”

“She isn't the executor! I am!” Dale yelled.

“Not yet. Not as long as that contract is in dispute. Mr. Oliver, this is going to take time, perhaps a long time. Until the matter is resolved, she will remain in charge of the artwork.”

“Crap! What if a tsunami wipes her out?”

“Ms. Vanessa Markov can continue to contest that contract, and, Mr. Oliver, if that tsunami catches her, too, the attorney for the estate can still contest it in the name of the child.”

Moulton had continued in the same calm, measured tones, as cool as an ice floe, “Mr. Oliver, there is no way of knowing at this time how a judge will decide concerning the validity of the contract. He will, of course, do what the law demands, but he also is a human being who will weigh in all the circumstances involved. Ms. Markov provided a home for her daughter all her life, and she set up a trust for her to ensure her future economic security. Those are not the actions of a greedy woman, but rather those of a caring parent. You are number four in a series of short-lived marriages, and you have been on the scene for no longer than three years or so. Furthermore, you and the late Mrs. Oliver maintained separate residences for most of your married life. He will also add that fact to his considerations.”

“Are you telling me I can't prove my case?” Dale demanded furiously. “She signed that contract. She wanted me to handle it.”

“That, of course, is a factor in the equation a judge will take into account. However, I advise you not to make any plans at this time for the future dispensation of the work.” Moulton rose from behind his desk.