For Every Evil (3 page)

“What is it supposed to be?” asked a woman moving up next to her.

Since Sophie was barely five foot one and the woman was a good foot taller, Sophie’s eyes rose to her face with a certain annoyance. “Pardon me?”

“That!” said the woman, squinting through a pair of thick glasses. She pointed to a square box hanging on the wall next to the rear exit.

“It’s the smoke alarm.”

The woman did a slow turn, dipping her chin and lifting an eyebrow. “Who
are
you?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Well!” she huffed, tugging on her black cape. “You’re obviously not the owner of this gallery. I was misinformed.”

“You were. Kate Chappeldine is over there — standing by the front entrance.” She pointed.

“I see. Thank you.”

Her tones were a bit too rounded for Sophie’s liking. She watched as the woman stomped away. What a hulk. Someone should tell her that throwing a cape over a body like hers was like trying to hide a water tower under a parachute. Not that Sophie and Bram hadn’t put on a few pounds in the past couple of years. Since Bram was already big, it just made him look more imposing. Sophie, on the other hand, was short and decidedly round. The words
garbanzo bean
came to mind as she contemplated her future figure.

“Mom?” came a deep voice from behind her.

She turned to find her son, Rudy, dressed in a waiter’s uniform, holding a silver tray filled with small wineglasses. “Hi, honey.” She beamed. “I thought I’d run into you, sooner or later.”

“I’m on a break right now. There’s someone I’d like you to meet” A much taller young man stood next to him.

Rudy, like Sophie, was short, with strawberry blond hair, curious gray eyes, and a smile that could melt a snowdrift from ten feet away. The man Rudy had brought for her to meet looked to be in his late twenties. Rich brown hair and beard. Silver wire-rimmed glasses. Quite handsome. “This is John Jacobi. He’s the artist. The one who did all the drawings.”

Sophie was surprised and delighted. “Kate said she wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”

“Oh, no,” he said, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I was just a little late.” His voice was deep and confident. He had a definite presence. “I had something I needed to take care of before I drove over from St. Paul.” He extended his hand. “I’m very glad to meet you. Rudy tells me you’re the new managing editor of
Squires Magazine.
My congratulations.”

“What do you think of John’s drawings?” asked Rudy, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“They’re wonderful.” Sophie smiled. “And you’ve got a big fan in Kate Chappeldine.” She eyed her son for a moment. He looked positively ebullient, almost as if he’d done the drawings himself. Switching her attention back to John, she asked, “Do you do animal bones and feathers exclusively?”

“Right now, yes. Everything in the natural, I suppose even the mythic world, can be represented by them. To me, they’re like great cathedrals. Awe-inspiring. Intricate. Amazing in their delicacy and simplicity. And each one unique.”

Sophie nodded, though she didn’t entirely understand. “I’ll make sure my husband comes over tomorrow to see what you’ve done.”

“Where
is
Bram?” asked Rudy, holding the tray steady while several people helped themselves to wine.

Sophie sighed. “Remember that state senator he’s been trying to interview? Well, the guy stiffed him again. He was supposed to be on tomorrow’s show — Bram always reserves Friday mornings for Minnesota politics — but he called the station and said he was going to be in meetings all day. Apparently, talking to his constituents via the airwaves isn’t the priority it was during his campaign. Anyway, Bram convinced him to come into the studio tonight. They’re taping a program for tomorrow’s broadcast.”

“Your husband has a talk show?” asked John.

She pulled on the short wisps of hair around her ears. “It’s a radio show. Weekday mornings from nine to noon on WMST.”

“It’s a great program,” said Kate Chappeldine, walking up and draping her arm around Sophie’s shoulders. “I see you’ve already met the star of the evening. Wonderful. Except I’m afraid I’m going to have to whisk him off to meet some other guests.”

“Of course,” said Sophie. She knew Kate was an aggressive businesswoman. John would no doubt be introduced to all the movers and shakers in the Twin Cities art community who were in attendance tonight, not to mention her most valued patrons, and, of course, those with the deepest pockets.

“I haven’t seen Hale and Ivy Micklenberg yet,” said Sophie, her eyes searching the crowded room.

“They’re coming,” said Kate. “Ivy stopped by last week. I showed her a couple of John’s drawings.”

“It would be just fine with me if they both skipped it,” said John, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. Realizing everyone was staring, he added, “I had a show three years ago at one of the warehouse galleries downtown. Micklenberg tore me to shreds in his column. If he comes, it will just be more of the same.”

“Critics,” said Sophie, shaking her head. “I guess they’re a necessary evil.” She was herself an occasional food critic for the
Times Register.

“I’m not so sure about that,” said John, his scowl deepening.

In an obvious effort to lighten the conversation, Rudy piped up, “Well, you know what Osborne said about them.”

“Huh?” said Sophie, raising an eyebrow. “Osborne who?”

“John Osborne. He said that asking a working artist what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamppost what it feels about dogs.”

John burst out laughing. “Perfect!”

Sophie had to admit it was a great line.

“Come on, you guys,” whispered Kate. “There are other art critics around here tonight. Let’s not annoy the herd. We want the stampede to go in the right direction. And anyway,” she added, giving John’s arm a tug, “it’s time to get to work.”

Still laughing, he extended his hand to Sophie. “I’m very glad we got a chance to talk, even if only for a few minutes.”

“Oh, by the way, Sophie,” said Kate, “don’t rush off before I have a chance to show you something in the back.”

Sophie was instantly intrigued. Kate rarely allowed people into the storage area. “I won’t.” After they had faded into the throng, she moved closer to Rudy and asked, “Where did you come up with that quote about critics?”

Rudy gave her an innocent shrug. “On Bram’s desk in his study. It was right next to the one by Sir Thomas Beecham.”

“Really. Which said?”

“Well, he called all critics ‘drooling, driveling, doleful, depressing, dropsical drips.’ “

Sophie put her arm around him, drawing him close. “You actually memorized that?”

“Sure. It’s good practice. If I’m going to be an actor, I have to learn to memorize quickly.”

“I can tell you’re going to be a sublime comfort to me in my old age.”

“Thank you.” He bowed his head slightly and then breezed off into the crowd.

“Excuse the mess,” said Kate, leading Sophie down a narrow corridor that ended at the storage room. “We’re already starting to get some of the artwork for the next opening. Space is at a premium.” She opened the door. The room was huge, with a high ceiling, a concrete floor, and concrete walls. “That’s funny. I don’t remember leaving the light on.”

Sophie waited while Kate removed a rather delicate glass sculpture from their path. “Is this where Rudy works?”

“He does most of the unpacking — as well as every other odd job I can think of. Computer entry. Hanging shows. And I’m teaching him about matting and framing. Don’t worry, we keep him busy. I really don’t know what I did without him.”

“I can’t thank you enough for taking him on. A university student’s hours don’t fit into many normal work schedules.”

“He’s terrific. He’s told me some about his early life — growing up in Montana.”

Sophie nodded. “His father was granted custody after our divorce. Until this fall, I hadn’t seen him since he was thirteen. Norm, my ex, is a minister. He discouraged any contact. Actually, he … well, he thought I was possessed by the devil.” As soon as she’d said it, she wished she hadn’t.

Kate stopped and turned. “He what?”

It always sounded so bizarre when Sophie tried to explain her past to people who had little familiarity with fundamentalist religion. Normally, even with a friend, she just let the subject drop. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s kind of a long story — I promise, I’ll tell you all about it sometime. The problem is, for years, I thought Rudy believed everything his father told him.”

At the sound of a throat being cleared, both women turned.

A balding man emerged from the shadows in the back of the room.

“Who let you in here?” demanded Kate, a startled look on her face. “This isn’t part of the gallery. Didn’t you see the sign?”

The man, dressed in a dark blue pin-striped suit and peach silk tie, stared back at her, a blank look on his face.

Kate moved toward him. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

He blinked several times before saying, “Of course.” As he stepped around a stack of boxes, he said, “Good evening, Sophie. I thought I might see you here tonight.”

Kate looked from face to face. “You two know each other?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Sophie, trying to keep her voice cheerful. “Kate Chappeldine, I’d like you to meet Charles Squire.”

“Squire? Any relation to Hilyard Squire, the founder of
Squires Magazine
?”

“I’m his son,” replied the man.

“Charles was the managing editor before I took over,” explained Sophie.

“You mean before Father canned me eight months ago.” He removed his matching silk handkerchief and stuffed it back into his vest pocket with a bit more flair. “But, thanks to my catlike persona, I’ve landed on my feet. I’m now the personal assistant to Hale Micklenberg at IAI. International Art Investments,” he added in an effort at clarification.

“I know what it is,” said Kate. She seemed momentarily at a loss. “Well, how … nice for you. But that doesn’t give you license to enter a private area.”

“I was just seeing if you’d received any of the Ezmer Hawks pastels yet. I’m curious about his work. I understand he’s going to be your next show.” Charles spoke of everything with a kind of weary disinterest. It was all part of his charm, as he liked to point out. “Hale is fascinated by the man’s work — I should say the
mystery
man. I understand you don’t know much about him.”

Kate nodded.

“Hale has a kind of proprietary interest, since he feels he discovered him.”

“I’m aware of his interest,” said Kate.

Charles pulled on his cuffs. “I believe, if Mr. Hawks plays his cards right, Hale might even feature him in the next IAI catalogue.”

“Is that right?” answered Kate. “Well, of course when he and Ivy get here, I’d be more than willing to let you all look at what I’ve received so far.”

“Oh. Sorry,” said Charles. “I forgot to tell you. They’re not coming.” With his usual ennui, he examined the fingernails on his right hand. “They’re in the midst of a …
situation.
Someone took a shot at Ivy through the living room window. Hale called and told me to give you the message.”

Sophie and Kate exchanged shocked glances.

“Well, I suppose I should be off. I have a dinner date.”

“Is Ivy all right?” asked Sophie. How typical of Charles to leave that part out. She and Ivy had known each other since kindergarten. Not well, but more or less socially.

“Right as rain as far as I know.” He gave a quick smirk, which disappeared almost instantly. It was another quirk of his.

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Kate. “If there’s anything I can do —”

“Awful thing to happen, I agree,” replied Charles. “Probably some kind of freak accident. A drive-by shooting. Gangs,” he said, with great distaste. “Well, sorry for the intrusion. Oh, and I did
not
see a sign prohibiting my entrance.” He opened the door with a small flourish and disappeared down the hall.

After he was gone, Sophie let out a groan. “That guy is such a weasel. He even looks like one. I think it’s the tiny black eyes. Everything about him is entirely too … oiled. Then again, I suppose living in the shadow of his prominent father hasn’t been easy.” She leaned against a worktable. “Isn’t that awful about Ivy?”

Kate was barely listening. She’d already crossed to the spot where Charles had been standing and was now busily examining it for . .. what? Damage? Weasel droppings?

“Anything wrong?” asked Sophie.

Kate was too preoccupied to reply. She was down on her hands and knees paging through some drawings.

Something had clearly upset her. Sophie eased herself between the matting table and a storage shelf.