Death of an Artist (12 page)

Tony nodded. “That ability to translate raw emotion into visual art that forces others to share the same emotion must be extremely rare. She had a perfect eye for what is there, and for seeing the reality behind the facade. That could be a terrifying experience, to see that much and feel forced to convey it through painting.”

“I think for most of her life she was hiding. Hiding her real art, her fears, herself. All that makeup, those awful clothes, all an effort to hide herself. That's why she didn't want to sell most of it, it was too revealing. I think that so often after a painting or a series of paintings that were disturbing, frightening, she would turn to more conventional ones, as if trying to escape the compulsion. It became a pattern that never really worked for her.”

Tony glanced at Van and again nodded. Hers was a remarkable gift, too, he thought, to have reached such an insight, such acceptance.

“Speaking of patterns,” he said, “Marnie mentioned that she recognized the pattern of Stef's behavior with Dale. What does that mean?”

“She's had more experience with it than I've had,” Van said drily, “but apparently when Stef was through with a man, there was always a big fight, then an apparent reconciliation, then she kicked him out. She had to be the one to give him the boot, so if it seemed that he was leaving of his own accord, there had to be the reconciliation first. I saw it a few times, but, as I said, Marnie's watched it many times. Dale was hubby number four,” Van said with a shrug. “There were others on an even more temporary and less formal basis, but the pattern held every time as far as I know.”

“You both believe she was following that script with him?”

“Absolutely.”

Tony remembered the fleeting expression of satisfaction that had crossed Stef's face when Dale appeared the night Tony had dinner there. It had not been satisfaction over the strawberries. They had been a bit too tart, just as Josh had complained.

For several minutes neither spoke again, then Van began to talk about her childhood, how Marnie took her to California at least twice a year to spend time with her father. “I expect the same will happen while I'm doing my internship,” she said. “Marnie will bring Josh to Chicago now and then, just so he won't forget me. We all know how an internship will go, the kind of hours I'll put in, without much time off. I'll be sure to get an apartment where they'll have room to light.” A wistful note was in her voice, as if she were already missing her child.

“I just hope he doesn't get sick,” she said in a much lower voice, almost as if speaking only to herself. “It's so important to have your mother there if you're sick. Stef always was. For days on end she paid hardly any attention to me, but if I got sick, she hardly left me. She told me stories, spoon-fed me if I didn't want to eat, held me, rocked me, even when I was almost as big as she was. That meant a lot. It does, I think, to kids. Marnie was always there, a constant, but it was so special for Stef to be there when I was hurting, feverish. I wanted my mother, and she was there.”

A memory surfaced and she became silent, recalling Stef's reaction when she announced at fifteen that she intended to become a doctor. “How could you bear it to be around people who are hurt, in agony, even dying? It might kill you to see and feel that much suffering!”

That was important, Van had come to know much later. Stef couldn't remove herself, be objective in the face of suffering. She felt it and couldn't escape it.

The silence in the car was prolonged when Van became silent.

Tony broke it by asking about Stef's art at the gallery. “Was any of it ever for sale?”

“Actually, Freddi sells quite a lot of it, most of it older work, but she's happy with the situation. She was very fond of Stef, and she also seemed to understand and have no trouble with her holding back the most powerful work.”

“When she called to tell you that Dale had priced everything, did she know the reason, the insurance business?”

“I don't know what she knew. She didn't mention it. She was pretty upset, though, and seemed to expect Stef's furious reaction. I think that's why she didn't want to bring it up with her, but preferred to let the family do it.”

They were nearing the outskirts of Portland and traffic had increased. “You know where we're to meet her?” Tony asked. “How to get there?”

“We're okay. We'll go straight into town, and I'll direct you when and where to turn. The café is a few blocks from the gallery in the downtown area.”

The gallery was on Eighth near Broadway, and parking was a problem until he pulled into a parking structure within a few blocks of the restaurant. The plan was to talk over lunch, then go to the gallery, where Dale might be on hand. Tony was looking forward to seeing his reaction to the removal of Stef's work.

Freddi Wordling, sixty-one, was a little plump, had a pleasant, round face with a broad, generous mouth and many laugh lines at her eyes. She wore little makeup and had short raven hair without a trace of gray. She was married to a successful architect with a large firm behind him; they traveled extensively and were sailing enthusiasts. Tony had learned this on the drive from the coast.

“I strongly recommend anything with crab,” Freddi said after the introductions. “I'm having crab salad and iced tea.”

Van and Tony ordered the same, and Van said, “Marnie told me in no uncertain terms that this meal is on her. And I obey my grandmother without question.”

“Beware the wrath of Marnie Markov,” Freddi said, smiling. “How is she holding up?”

“It's been hard,” Van said. “She'll be all right. Steel spine, all that.”

The waitress served their tea and a basket of bread with butter. Van looked at her hands and excused herself. “I've been at the mercy of grubby little hands and want to wash mine.”

After she left, Freddi studied Tony quite frankly, then said, “I warned Van that Dale is bound to object to having the paintings removed. Are you prepared to deal with that?”

“It's what I'm here for. Who's in charge at the gallery? You or Dale?”

“Fifty-fifty. He's business, I'm art director and manager. My former partner wanted to retire and found Dale, who was eager to buy in.”

“Do you object to having the paintings taken away?”

She shook her head. “Dale said he has a contract that gives him the right to decide, however.”

“That contract will be contested. Have you seen it?”

She shook her head again. “I learned about it a few days ago, the first I had heard anything about it. I haven't seen it.”

“Let's wait for Van to go into that,” Tony said. “I understand that you've been showing Stef's work for a long time.”

“About twenty years. I saw some of her work that long ago in Marnie's shop, tracked her down, and talked her into letting me show it and even sell a few things.”

“She wasn't showing it before that?”

“Only in Marnie's shop. We never had a formal agreement, only our word. That's why I find it disturbing if she signed a contract with Dale. I'd like very much to know the terms, what she agreed to.”

“You know she had no insurance for the work at the house?”

“I know. I tried to talk her into letting me have an appraiser come over, but she dragged her feet and never did anything about it.” Freddi picked up a piece of bread and spread butter on it, then put it down. “Mr. Mauricio, just who are you and what's your place in this? Marnie told me you used to be a New York City detective, retired now.”

“True. Marnie and Van asked me to look into this matter for them.”

“What matter?” Freddi asked bluntly.

“Neither of them believes Stef's death was accidental,” he said slowly.

He watched her expression change from simple curiosity to disbelief, then a more thoughtful look. “They think Dale killed her?”

“Yes.”

“Dear God!” she said softly, and looked away from him.

They remained silent until Van rejoined them, followed almost instantly by the waitress with their salads.

Then, with the salads as yet untouched, Freddi leaned forward and asked Tony, “How can I help you?”

“I told her why I'm here,” Tony said to Van. To Freddi he added, “By answering some questions. Clear up a few details.”

“Of course.”

Over the next hour, eating their lunches as they talked, Freddi answered without hesitation the questions he had for her.

“You say the art at the house can be appraised and insured. Are you certain about that?”

“Yes. It would be minimal insurance since so much of the work has never been offered for sale, but there's enough that has been sold to form a basis for estimates, at the very least. I'm sure that some of it is museum quality, and a good appraiser is likely to come to the same conclusion. I also recommend that all the artwork be removed to a storage facility, one with good climate control. It needs to be sorted, arranged by date and or medium. Pastels with pastels, oil with oil, and so on.” She looked at Van and added, “As executor of the art estate, it will be up to Marnie to decide, but if she decides to do it, I can send an art major out to help. It will be a big undertaking.”

Van nodded. “I'm sure she'll want to do it. It's always been a worry, having it so haphazard the way it is.”

“Did you know why Dale Oliver decided to price everything in the gallery a few months back?” Tony asked.

“No. He claimed that if Stef realized its value, she would come around. I doubted it, and her reaction justified my doubts.”

“It wasn't so that he could get insurance?” Van asked. “That's what he said.”

“No. She knew she could get minimal insurance anytime she agreed to do it.”

“Just one lie after another,” Van said bitterly.

“Do you know anything about a possible big offer for the work titled
Feathers and Ferns
?” Tony asked.

Freddi nodded. “That's a real offer. Seventy-five hundred. Dale thinks it can go higher. The gentleman is a millionaire, based in Seattle, and he was quite taken with it. He's called a few times to ask when it will be available.”

“Would that be considered a breakout sale?”

Her nod this time was a bit slower in coming. “I think so. It happens that way sometimes. One big sale and others want to get in on the ground floor while they can still claim to have recognized an emerging genius before anyone else. That sort of thing.”

“Why were you willing to let her hold back so much of the most valuable art?”

“She needed to distance herself from it before she could let go,” Freddi said, again speaking slowly and thoughtfully. “It's like that with some artists. Their art is too personal for a long time, but with distance, they often tend to denigrate it in some ways, to disown it even. That happened with Stef. Some of the recent sales were of work she refused to let go as recently as eight years ago, and then began to scorn. I knew it would happen again and again. I was willing to wait.” Freddi looked down at her salad and said in a lower voice, “I thought we had time enough.”

“Has Dale put prices on the art still in the gallery?”

“Yes. He said he had the right under the contract she signed. Now you tell me something about that contract. You said it would be contested. Why? What's wrong with it?”

This time Van answered. She told the terms of the contract, then added, “She spelled her name wrong, both names, Stefany and Markov. It had to be deliberate. We think she was mocking him, laughing at him.”

“She had no intention of honoring the contract?”

“No. She was furious when he priced her work earlier, as you know. She knew he was lying. She wouldn't let it slide. You know what she was like.”

Freddi nodded. “I was pretty upset when he came back from the coast after … after. They had loaded the paintings in the van and they were still there. He brought them inside, and a few days later, right after the memorial, he began to price and hang some of them. I found that upsetting.”

Van pushed her plate back. “Freddi, when the dust settles, we'll want you to come out and decide what you want to show, to price it according to your own judgment. We don't want that arrangement to change. But it might take a long time for the dust to settle. I'm sorry.”

“Thank you,” Freddi said. “Her work should be shown, appreciated, enjoyed by the world.”

“There's one more thing to go into,” Tony said. “Van, this might be hard to take. You want to go wash your hands again?”

“I want to hear it all. Go on.”

“It's that last day,” he said. “The account I've read is that Dale was on the phone to you, Freddi, when Stef had her fall. Will you tell me about that phone call, what you could hear?”

Freddi closed her eyes for a moment. “He called me to say they'd be leaving in a few minutes. He mentioned that he was standing by the window checking out the weather and hoped it wouldn't start raining. He said they'd be bringing in about ten items, six charcoals and a couple of landscapes, the early ones, and something else that he didn't name. He sounded very pleased and said she was coming around, just as he had predicted. That she was in the studio selecting a recent painting or two. That's when I heard her scream and he said something like ‘Jesus, what's going on?' I could hear his footsteps, then a door opening. He yelled her name and the phone banged down. They say he dropped it on the concrete. Everything was indistinct then, his voice calling her name. It sounded hoarse, far away, and I couldn't be sure of what he was saying or crying. It stopped when he ran back inside the house to call for help. I kept my cell on and used the office phone to call 911, but I didn't hear anything else from him. I was transferred to a dispatcher in Newport.”

Van was pale but she did not move or utter a sound as Freddi spoke, or in the small interlude of silence that followed.