Signs in the Blood (33 page)
Elizabeth watched, bemused, as the flamboyant Boz moved through the crowd, seemingly unfazed by the recent rebuff. He moved to one wall where a voluptuous blonde,
trophy wife,
Elizabeth decided, was stretching up to retrieve a box of matches from the topmost grid. Boz crept up behind her, aimed the camera at her stiletto heels then slowly, lasciviously, shot the length of her tightly gowned body, lingering on her rounded buttocks then focusing on her cleavage when she turned around. Her squeal expressed surprised delight and a tanned, silver-haired man who had been wordlessly watching Boz, burst into a raucous guffaw. “He's immortalized that expensive ass of yours, Vanessa. Now
you're
a
work of art.”
Across the gallery a little knot of attendees burst into laughter. From their midst emerged a trim middle-aged man in beautifully tailored evening clothes. His head was completely bald and shone as if waxed. Diamond studs sparkled in his earlobes and a vest, lavishly embroidered in deep metallic blues and greens could be seen beneath his dinner jacket. A man's voice somewhere to Elizabeth's right said in a low tone to an unseen companion, “Carter Dixon's here to protect his little investment. I warned him that he was taking a chance with a loose cannon like Boz but, oh no, Carter knows best. He swears that the photographs from this performance will fly out the door, once he mounts the show at the Query.”
“Carter sometimes likes them rough,” sniffed the other man. “I, personally, don't care for the acne-pitted look. Now the other one . . . that blonde boy . . . quite delicious. Just like that gorgeous elf in the
Lord of the Rings
films.”
Carter Dixon, owner of Asheville's newest gallery, had succeeded in gaining Boz's attention and was speaking urgently to him as the young artist continued his circuit of the gallery, seemingly intent on capturing images of all the attendees. After a few minutes, Boz turned the camera on Dixon, aiming first at his bald head then, as he had done with the shapely Vanessa, slowly panned down the length of Dixon's body, pausing at his crotch then crouching down to move around for a rear shot.
Dixon whirled, his face flaming, and melted back into the crowd. Pleased snickers erupted from the pair at Elizabeth's right and they moved away, trading delighted speculations as to whether or not
those
particular photographs would show up at the Query.
Elizabeth looked around the crowded room for Laurel who seemed to have disappeared. Standing on tiptoe, she tried to catch a glimpse of her daughter's fiery mop of dreadlocks somewhere among the careful coiffures of the society matrons who were giggling like teenagers as they struck match after match.
But Laurel was nowhere in sight. Elizabeth began edging toward the door that led to the smaller gallery where Rob Amberg's photographs of rural Appalachia were on display. She had seen these before, indeed, an autographed copy of his book graced her coffee table.
All this foolishness,
she thought,
I need to look at something real.
As she wove her way between the chattering art patrons, feeling safely invisible in her anonymous black skirt and white shirt, Elizabeth realized that The 3 had suddenly left the gallery. She hesitated, wondering if a new phase of the performance was about to begin but the smell and smoke of hundreds of matches was becoming annoying. Deciding that she would risk missing whatever was coming next, Elizabeth resolutely shouldered her way between two brittle-faced women who were regaling each other with horror stories concerning the outrageous demands of their respective
au pairs.
The smaller gallery was blessedly quiet and uncrowded. A few patrons were studying the large black and white photographs whose subjects were so like many of Elizabeth's neighbors. She went first to the picture of a sturdy white-haired woman in a house dress leaning down to milk a cow.
Just like Dessie,
she smiled, remembering her late neighbor. She was moving slowly around the gallery, working her way to her favorite picture—a shaggy workhorse being led down through a snowy barnyard toward a rude gate—when she heard the sound of familiar voices.
She paused to read the artist's statement, which was on an easel by the door. Beyond the door was a small hallway where restrooms and an elevator were located and looking out the door Elizabeth saw The 3 reflected in the glass of a large framed poster that hung beside the elevator. She was about to move away to avoid being caught skipping out on their performance piece when she heard Aidan say, “And you'll show up before they actually arrest me.” In the reflection she could see him tossing his long straight yellow hair back in a strangely girlish gesture. “I sure as fuck don't want to end up in a cell with some big Bubba type who fancies me for his bitch.”
She could see the mirrored Boz clap Aidan on the shoulder and hear the growl of his deep voice. “Don't worry, man; I'll be back in time to save your skinny ass.”
Elizabeth strained to catch what Kyra was saying. The young woman's voice was pitched low and she sounded distressed, “. . . tell us where you'll be . . . danger . . .” That was all Elizabeth could hear before Boz's deep rumble cut off Kyra's murmurings.
“Naw, baby girl, it's better Aidan don't know where I'm at. They might want to give him a lie detector test and he'd spill his guts. Now you two get on back in there and we'll get this show on the road.”
Hurriedly, Elizabeth moved away from the door and back to the main gallery and the pile of burnt matches. Without the presence of The 3 and their busy cameras, the attendee/participants seemed a little weary of the game now and many were ignoring the unopened match boxes still on the gridded wall. Most of the men seemed to be huddled in knots discussing financial matters or golf and the table at the side where champagne was being poured was doing a lively business. The ancient benefactress and her bodyguard were gone, but no one had presumed to sit in her chair. The director and chairman were deep in talk, each with an empty glass in hand.
“What do you think, Mum?” Laurel, her tall, slender frame clad in a long floating garment made of red-orange silk shot with gold threads, materialized suddenly at her mother's elbow, and waved her champagne glass at the pile of burnt matchsticks on the red circle. “Look at the composition that makes! And the grid on the walls—well, obviously it references Modrian, but the ongoing depletion speaks so clearly of a postmodern sensibility!” She nodded toward the dark lattice of shelving. It was mostly empty now, but for a few untouched matchboxes, and Elizabeth had to admit that it did have a certain. . . .
“Well,” she ventured, “in the words of the philosopher, I don't know much about art, but—where did that outfit come from, Laurel? It looks expensive.”
Laurel grinned and struck a pose. “It's an original—Lisa lent it to me. We did a trade; I'm going to model some stuff for—”
She broke off, seeing Kyra and Aidan re-enter the room and begin snapping pictures again. Elizabeth was amused to notice that many of the patrons who had been busy with their champagne and gossip were suddenly moved to resume the lighting and extinguishing of matches. Just as one particularly expensive-looking woman was elaborately placing her match at the very apex of the pile, there was a loud hissing sound. The gallery patrons stared, jaws agape, as Boz, wielding a big fire extinguisher, covered the woman and the pile of matches with white foam.
There was stunned silence and then Boz spoke. “Aidan, you pathetic shit, it's over.” He dropped the fire extinguisher and walked calmly over to Aidan and Kyra. A woman behind Elizabeth hissed, “Isn't this exciting! I just love performance art! But I had no
idea
that Marilou was going to be part of it.”
Marilou, evidently the woman who had been covered with foam, didn't act as if she had known either. She was wiping the foam from her face and making sputtering noises as she looked down at the ruin of her turquoise silk gown. The throng of guests made no move to assist her as they watched eagerly to see what would happen next.
Elizabeth was confused. Aidan and Kyra seemed to be cowering away from Boz as he approached them. His massive body, clad in the black slacks and black tee shirt that were the uniform of The 3, strode toward them, red cowboy boots resounding on the slick floor. Aidan and Kyra stood there dumbly while Boz reached out, snatched the cameras from their hands, and hurled them to the floor. With a sardonic grin he began to stamp on the cameras.
“Boz, you crazy fucker!” Aidan's anguished howl reverberated in the stunned silence as he dived for the cameras. “You're destroying the show!”
“You got it, little buddy,” replied Boz. Satisfied that the cameras were ruined, he calmly walked over to the nearest wall and began pulling down the flimsy shelves. Kyra was crying helplessly and the woman who was standing behind Elizabeth whispered again, a little dubiously this time, “It's all part of the art, isn't it?”
A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR
VICKI LANE
lives with her husband, two sons, and daughter-in-law on a mountain farm in North Carolina. She has completed her second Elizabeth Goodweather novel,
Art's Blood,
and is at work on the third.
SIGNS IN THE BLOOD
A Dell Book / June 2005
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
Lyrics from “San Francisco (Be Sure to Wear Some Flowers in Your Hair),” written by John Phillips, performed by Scott McKenzie, MCA Music, 1967.
Lyrics from the traditional ballads “Wagoner's Lad” and “Little Mathey Groves” , Granny Dell Records, 1990, reprinted with the permission of Sheila Kay Adams.
Excerpt from “Invictus,” by William Ernst Henley, 1875.
Excerpt from “The Second Coming,” by William Butler Yeats, 1921.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2005 by Vicki Lane
Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33554-2
v3.0