Tales of the Witch (22 page)

“Stop salivating and get to the point,” Byron said testily.

“Yes. Well, turned out she was—ah—‘intellectually challenged,’ shall we say? Nice woman, sweet nature and all that. But by her last sitting her prattle drove me crazy, so I turned on the television to keep her entertained and quiet.” He sighed as he paused. “And there he was, being interviewed on the 12 o’clock news. Our chronic nemesis, the Reverend Floyd. He was pumping out Sodom and Gomorrah references, howling about ‘immorality in the arts.’ And as usual he meant me. Or rather, Byron. This time his target was the upcoming show of my latest nudes, painted in Byron’s name, of course. She watched the whole interview, fascinated. The reverend called poor Byron nasty names, said he was a canker in the career of his distinguished brother—meaning me—” He turned to his brother. “I’m so sorry, Byron. I’ve never understood why people think I’m so blasted
distinguished
.” He shook his head mournfully.

“As I’ve told you at least twice a day since we made our deal: who gives a terwhit? I lift not a finger, yet I get all the fame. Every female I meet competes for my attention, hoping I’ll want to paint her. The dancing, the parties—” He sighed. “I’ve never had so much fun in my life! You even share the profits, which aren’t bad, by the way. Frankly, I think you’re crazy to pay me, I should pay you.”

Byron shot his sleek designer cuffs, and examined his meeker, more rustically dressed brother. “I even look more artsy than you. You dress like a bus driver.”

Allyn smiled fondly at his brother, then his smile drooped. “Anyway, when she saw him on the tube, she squealed and bounced all over the dais, pointing him out as her beloved husband. I would’ve run for it, if I hadn’t been so stunned.”

Byron nodded. “The man’s a lunatic. He pickets our shows, writes horrible letters to critics and to television talk show hosts. He once tried to drag me into court, on obscenity charges. And Allyn paints such gorgeous ladies, too. If they were ugly, then he should protest, in my opinion.”

Allyn groaned. “Maybe he’s cranky from lack of sleep. I mean, with such a treat waiting for him at home—lucky man,” he finished wistfully.

“You most definitely should marry, Allyn,” put in Mrs. Risk disapprovingly.

“I’ve tried, heaven knows I have. But this art business. Why critics insist that my used paint rags stapled to canvas are ‘a genius of understated commentary on modern tensions…’ what drivel. I just did those things for fun!” He shook his head. “Crazy.”

Rachel frowned. “And you can’t paint the nudes under your own name because…?”

Allyn flashed Rachel a weak smile. “My agent says now that I’m considered a serious artist, it’ll ruin my image if people discover I also paint crass, commercial stuff like these nudes. Even if I don’t understand his reasoning, I do what he says. He’s been right about everything else.

“Anyway. Zella promised that as soon as she gave her husband the portrait, she’d change his mind about me. I’d treated her like a lady, she said, and there was nothing bad about showing off the bodies God gave women. Her breasts quivered from her zeal to enlighten her husband, so indignant she was. Quite impressive breasts.” He smiled, remembering.

Mrs. Risk said, “Your nudes are exquisite. I shouldn’t wonder if someday those silly rags will be forgotten and your nudes celebrated.”

“They’ll probably be worth a fortune after he’s dead,” put in Rachel cheerily. Both brothers turned wounded looks her way.

Mrs. Risk asked, “What does your agent say about your approaching ruin? I presume you informed him about Zella.”

Byron huffed. “Are you kidding? Allyn wouldn’t make a move without consulting Hal. Harold Rigstone, very smart. Hal told Allyn to sit tight, he’d take care of everything. He says the Rev’s got as much to lose as us. Making us an issue has put the Rev’s face on the map, or rather in the news. It’s financially lucrative for him, Hal says. And when it comes to making money, Hal knows more than anybody. Positively ravenous. He also says if there’s something the public can’t stomach, it’s a hypocritical holier-than-thou finger-pointer. And as an owner of an original Byron LeFarge, how can he point fingers now?”

Allyn shifted uneasily. “Well, I don’t know if we should criticize. Maybe it’s an occupational requirement of his job—being a preacher.”

Byron smirked. “Maybe. Hal loves the Rev. Says he’s gotten us better publicity than we could’ve bought.”

Mrs. Risk said, “Aren’t you just postponing the inevitable? People are sure to discover someday that Allyn’s the one really painting the nudes.”

Byron gave Mrs. Risk a look of boyish injury. “Hah. We’re interchangeable. Even our mother can’t pick which is who without us telling her.”

Rachel laughed. “The way you look now? Forget it. You two look like a bowling ball and a bowling pin!”

The rotund Byron bit the lip that was an exact replica of his much slimmer brother’s. “It’s all those society dinners. I can’t resist.”

“We know.” Allyn sighed. “If Zella spots Byron’s excess flesh in a society page photo, she’ll figure it out. Even with her IQ. I’ve been after Byron to diet.”

Byron rubbed his belly and moaned. “I’ve been meaning to. Soon.”

“You should’ve waited until he’d reduced before taking on any more commissions, Allyn,” said Mrs. Risk sternly.

“Of course you’re right. But she was such a delicious morsel…”

“Shallow pig. All you think about is how a woman’s body looks,” Rachel said indignantly.

Allyn looked taken aback. “I’m an artist. It’s my business to care how things look.”

Mrs. Risk stacked empty lemonade glasses on a tray. “Well, sounds like you’d both better get to Reverend Floyd’s house without further delay,” she said absently.

She happened to glance at the brothers as she turned, with laden tray, towards her house. She stopped.

Two moist pairs of eyes drooped before her, heavy with mute pleading.

Rachel giggled.

Mrs. Risk groaned. “I suppose I could accompany you.”

Joy transported them until she snapped, “Hold the gratitude. You may find you have little reason for it.”

Rachel shrugged out of the kimono and reclined again on the dais. “I’ll wait here until you get back.”

Minutes later they found themselves huddled just inside a front door, confronting a sunken-eyed Reverend Floyd. His gaunt old body swayed over his wife’s body.

“My God,” whispered Byron.

Distended ligaments distorted the Reverend Floyd’s neck as he ranted, “Whoremonger! Purveyor to base appetites! Vengeance, I will have vengeance—” He faltered as Mrs. Risk’s presence registered.

“Have you called the police?” she asked him gently.

“Vengeance is mine—!”

“—saith the Lord, not you, Reverend Floyd. Please. Call the police. You’ve probably already destroyed evidence just by admitting us to this room.”

Reverend Floyd waved away the idea. “It was you!” he thundered, pointing at the chubby Byron, who had entered first. Byron shuffled hastily backwards, ducking behind Mrs. Risk and trampling his brother’s toes.

Allyn leaned back against the front door for support, which pushed it closed.

“You think Byron killed her?” asked Mrs. Risk.

“He was here!”

She twisted and lifted an eyebrow at Byron, who gave her a quick negative shake of the head. She turned back to the reverend, but before she could speak, he interrupted.

“See that—that painting?” Revulsion twisted his mouth as he pointed. “Our condo is too small to hide something that size, I would’ve seen it. So he brought it here after I left this morning to play golf. He was here.”

“But why would Byron kill her?”

“He probably lusted after her in his heart, and when she refused him, for she was a virtuous woman, he killed her in anger. He’s used to having his way with women, and doesn’t expect them to be chaste.”

“Oh, puhleeze,” moaned Byron.

“I—he just paints them, he doesn’t molest them,” declared Allyn indignantly.

“Couldn’t she have fetched it here herself?” asked Mrs. Risk.

“No!” His chin quivered. “It was her habit to tell me every detail of her day, every morning. She would’ve spoken of bringing something like this home, even if never saying what it was. She hadn’t the imagination to lie.”

“Nevertheless—” began Allyn.

“QUIET!” From a desk drawer the reverend withdrew a large pistol, then shuffled backward until he could lower himself into a chintz-covered easy chair. He trained the pistol on Byron, his young wife’s body at his feet like a sacrifice before an aged idol. “I have judged. I condemn.” His voice shook, the pupils of his eyes pinpointed from shock. “I shall…execute.”

The blood drained from the two brothers’ faces.

“Stay calm, boys,” murmured Mrs. Risk. Casually she moved forward until she had inserted herself into the line of fire.

“May the accused be granted his right of intercession?” she inquired formally, as if confronting a real judge.

Reverend Floyd regarded her with displeasure. “I know you. Some say you’re a witch. Supernatural beings have no power in this house.”

“Tchah, not relevant.” She waved that away. “If you insist on judging, uh, Byron—then at least make the trial fair.”

After a long moment, he shrugged. “Intercede.”

Mrs. Risk took a deep breath and used the moment to survey the living room in which they stood. The first, most obvious detail she noticed was widespread disorder. Dusty, overstuffed furniture littered with clothing and other items left little floor space in the room except where Zella lay. Behind her, next to the front door, a large leather bag bristling with golf clubs stood propped against the wall. And on a table at the reverend’s elbow, a phone/answering machine sat with the light blinking.

The dining room, similarly disheveled, could be seen through a wide open arch behind the reverend’s chair. Across its opening was taped a garish metallic banner of letters that spelled out ‘Happy Birthday.’ Further in, on the dining table could be seen a pink box inscribed with a local baker’s name. Mrs. Risk guessed that the box held a birthday cake.

As for Zella, her body lay sprawled face down on the huge canvas, face to face with her own image, beneath her head a glaze of congealing blood. A stench of copper, body odors, plus traces of paint fumes filled the sultry air. Zella’s fingers gripped the painting’s edges. Her tousled blonde hair mercifully covered her face, but exposed the gash above her forehead.

“How long do you suppose she’s been dead?” asked Allyn suddenly. “Maybe we have an alibi. We were with you and Rachel all morning, remember?”

Mrs. Risk hmmphed. “The Reverend doesn’t seem to use air conditioning. This sticky heat prevents an accurate guess without an autopsy.”

Byron asked, his voice quavering. “How do we know he didn’t do her in himself? I don’t think his beans are all in a row, you know? And look at these golf clubs, Mrs. Risk.” He pointed sideways at them. “This ‘five’ iron. It’s got a little of the, uh, red stuff on it.”

Allyn glanced nervously at the reverend. “He probably had his clubs on his shoulder when he entered the room, saw her with the painting, was seized with a fit of rage, and—”

Mrs. Risk stopped him with a warning lift of her palm.

Byron bent to read a shipping tag and a small brass plate bolted to the bag. “Hey! He got these clubs yesterday! From the Governor, for his birthday. In recognition of services to our state, if you can believe it. Whew. Monograms and everything!”

Allyn lifted his unimpressive chin. “Hah! He figured it’d be too hard to dispose of a fancy monogrammed club, so he washed it and put it back. Lousy job of washing.”

“Those clubs were here all morning,” the reverend said gruffly. The gun still pointed straight at Byron. “The weather forecast predicted rain and I didn’t want to get them muddy. I played with my old ones. HE must’ve used one to strike her down. Then HE washed and replaced it. He wanted to escape punishment. But evil will out!”

Allyn scoffed. “Byron’s never washed a thing in his life. That’s why I can’t live with him. He’s a godawful mess. No offense, Reverend.” He glanced around the grubby, disheveled room. “Not that I can see you taking offense.”

“Hey, at least I’m not compulsively clean,” said Byron. “Why do you think you’re still single? You scrub everything your girlfriends touch until they leave, insulted. Rightfully so, too. No, if anyone washed something, it’s Allyn, here.” He sucked in his breath. “What am I saying! Well,” he said, recovering himself. “He’d do a much better job of it than this.

“Actually,” blurted Byron again after a pause, “it’s a stretch to think you’d believe the weather report, Rev. Everyone knows they’re always wrong. Today’s been perfect! No golfer’d pass up a chance to play with beauties like these, especially with them being brand new.” He straightened his shirt collar as if saying, ‘so there.’

“Excuse me, but no one’s mentioned something I’d like to know…how the bloody hell did the painting get here?” Everyone stared in astonishment at a flushed and irritable Allyn.

He looked at his brother belligerently. “Despite Hal’s opinion, I decided not to give her the painting. So who did?”

Byron blinked, startled. “Don’t look at me! You’re so organized I can never find anything of yours, dear brother. I know, well, because I looked for it. She sounded so—” he cast a nervous glance at the reverend. “Anyway, I never found it.”

“Well. That’s interesting,” said Mrs. Risk.

The reverend made a bitter sound. “Don’t tell me you believe these buffoons?”

“We’re trying to swallow your story of the weather man, aren’t we?” asked Byron.

Mrs. Risk pointed. “Reverend. The light is blinking on your answering machine. Would you mind playing back the phone messages?” She took a step towards the phone.

He frowned at her with annoyance. “Why should I? No.”

“Reverend. It’s a reasonable request, under the circumstances. Unless you lied about allowing me to intercede. Did you lie?”

Sullenly, he stabbed at the message ‘play’ button.

After lengthy rewinding, they were rewarded with four recordings of a male voice, heavy with static, begging Mrs. Floyd to return his call. Each message included a phone number and a time the message had been received. The times were 8:40, 9:07, 9:35, and 10:02 a.m. As they listened, Mrs. Risk took another step closer.