Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception (11 page)

She gives me a very regal smile. “That's better than
when
were you born. Let's hope you're not planning to work up to that.”

I shook my head. “No, ma'am.”

“Well then, I was born in Boston, I studied in New York and Paris, and spent many years refining my style in the quaint town of Orlean.”

The word Orlean seemed to come through her nose, and since I wasn't real sure, I asked her, “New Orleans? In Louisiana?”

She laughs, “Oh, how precious! No, dear. Orlean as in Orlean, France. Have you ever studied Joan of Arc? Well, she came from Orlean. A charming city, and the one
New
Orleans is named after. Like New York is named after York? In England? And New Jersey after Jersey?”

My face must've looked pretty blank, because she said, “You didn't know that, dear?”

I shook my head.

“Well, nonetheless, I spent many years in France.”

A phone began ringing in a different room as I was jotting down notes, but Diane waved it off, saying, “I'll just let the machine get it.”

Now, this was not one of the questions on my list, but it popped out of my mouth anyway. “So how in the world did you wind up in Santa Mar
ti
na?”

She laughs. “Good question. One I used to ask my parents all the time. They moved here when I was quite young, and believe me, I spent a great deal of energy trying to escape this town.” She looks out the window and says, “Seems quite ironic how content I am to be here now.”

I didn't really know how to go about jotting
that
down, so I just went on to my next question. “Can you tell me a little about your process? Like, how often do you paint, how do you decide what to paint, where do you paint … that sort of thing.”

“Well, let's see … I'm very disciplined about my art. I paint every day. Sometimes the result is inspired, often it's not. What I paint can range from real-life images, to recollections, to dreams. I get a lot of inspiration from dreams.”

I scribbled like crazy, then asked, “Do you have a studio?”

She laughs. “Yes, but it's really just a back bedroom that I use as such. I'll show you later, if you'd like, but it's nothing glamorous, believe me. I also do plein-air painting. I'll see a scene I love and then gather my easel and palette and go to it.”

She smiles at me and waits, so I ask, “What kind of paint do you use?”

“Oils. Strictly oils. Cut with linseed and turpentine, of course. And since I'm going for an Old World depth, I treat my work with an antiquing spray to put in the teeny tiniest of cracks.”

“So that's it!” Hudson says. “That's fascinating!” Diane laughs, “Perhaps I shouldn't be giving away my trade secrets like this.” She warms Hudson's tea, but as she starts to top off Grams', Grams stops her and says, “Might I use your bathroom?” She smiles. “Tea, you know.”

Diane smiles back and motions behind her. “Through this doorway, take a left, second door on your right.”

When Grams takes off, Diane asks me, “What's next?” So I ask her questions about who her influences were and how long a painting takes her to make and stuff like that. And Diane's being patient and very nice, giving a lot of thought to what she's saying.

Her answers are making
me
think, too. Like when I ask her how she decides what to paint, and she says, “I like art to represent life as it should be or could be … an ideal to which you should strive,” it makes me think about what that
means
, and how it isn't just the images in her paintings that I like, it's the mood. The way they make me feel like I
want
to feel.

And I'm kind of disappointed that Grams isn't hearing Diane's answers, because if she was she would almost
have
to start to like her, too. But Grams obviously has some serious business to attend to, because she hasn't
come back. And pretty soon I'm down to my last two questions. So I just go ahead and ask, “Can you tell me why you paint?”

“
Why
I paint?” She studies me a minute, then takes a deep breath, looks up at the ceiling, and holds her breath.

Now, sitting there in her high-collared white blouse with the dainty ruffled cuffs, she looks so … regal. Her posture's perfect. Her ankles and knees are pressed together and angled to the side. Even the way she's holding the teacup with her fingertips seems regal. Her nails aren't long, but they're perfectly manicured and painted a soft pink that blends in with the flowers on her cup. Like little rose petals, set against porcelain.

When she finally lets her breath go and looks at me, what she says is, “I paint because I have to. It's something I'm called to do. Moved to do. It is who I am.” And the way she says it is so intense—so sincere—it gives me goose bumps up and down my arms.

It also gives me the nerve to ask her the one question I really wanted an answer to. “Where did
Whispers
come from?”

“Where did it
come
from?” She smiles at me softly and says, “From my heart, dear.”

“But I mean … who
are
those people?”

“They're not models, if that's what you're asking. And I don't use photographs.”

“But … then who were you imagining?”

“Ah.” She smiles again, but this time it's twinged with sadness. “Generalities are fine, but it's my policy not to discuss the specifics of my subject matter.”

All of a sudden I wanted to shake her and say, “You've got to tell me!” It felt like I
had
to know who those people in the painting were. What was the girl whispering? And most of all, who was it she was sharing her secret with.

And I know this sounds stupid, but in two seconds flat I went from wanting to shake an answer out of her to feeling like I'd swallowed a golf ball. I couldn't seem to say a thing.

What
was
it about that painting?

“Dear? Are you all right?”

My voice came out low and choked. “Can't you tell me
any
thing about it?”

She sighed. “The idea is that you see what
you
see, and if I tell you what
I
see, that will alter your perception of it.” She put her hand on my knee. “I'm glad it moves you. You've given me the most precious of compliments.”

I nodded and managed to say, “Where is it, anyway?”

“
Whispers?
Why, it's still at the Vault.”

“Oh. I thought you might bring them home after what happened.”

“I threatened to, but Joseph has hired a security guard, who, he assures me, will protect them to the death.”

“Really?” Hudson says.

“Yes.” She smiles at me.

“So for the next three weeks, you can see
Whispers
at the Vault.”

“What happens to it after three weeks?” I ask her.

She keeps her left hand neatly in her lap as she refreshes Hudson's tea. “We'll see. Maybe someone will buy it, hmmm?”

I almost said, “No!” but just then Grams walks in the room. Her cheeks are rosy, and she's trying to act nonchalant, but I can tell—she hasn't been using the bathroom all this time. She's been nosing around.

The naughty little snooper.

Hudson doesn't even look at her as she takes her seat. He just tells Diane, “I have no doubt someone will buy
Whispers.
”

Now if Hudson had stopped right there, he would have been okay. But no. He has to go and tell Diane about a summer he spent camped outside the Louvre in France, visiting the museum nearly every day, discovering new and breathtaking works of art. And then he goes and puts the cherry on top. He says, “Your paintings could hang in the Louvre, Diane. They're that good.”

Diane blushes and looks down. “Oh, Hudson. You do know how to flatter, don't you?”

Grams turns red, too, but let me tell you, it's a whole different
temperature
red.

So I figure it's time to wrap this party up. “That was my last question, Ms. Reijden. Do you think we could see your studio before we go?”

“There's really not much to see, dear, but we can take a quick peek if you'd like.”

“Great,” I say, getting up.

Hudson says, “Now?” like he can't believe what I'm doing. But Grams stands up, too, and says, “I do think we have taken up enough of Ms. Reijden's time, don't you?”

Hudson sputters a minute like, Well,
no
, but then the phone starts ringing again. And since it's easy to see that
Diane's distracted by that and also not exactly begging us to stay, Hudson stands up, too.

So she takes us down the back hallway, then pushes open the door to a fairly small room. “See?” she says, holding open the door. “Not even remotely glamorous.”

I peek in and can see an easel with a partly painted canvas on it. And on a stool right beside it is an oval wooden palette—the kind with a thumb hole and a cutaway for the hand.

“Cool palette!” I tell her, because I love those things. “My art teacher, Miss Kuzkowski? She has one just like it—it's so cool to watch her use it. She puts on a little beret and just gets
into
it.”

She laughs. “Well, I don't wear a beret, but my palette certainly helps me get into the flow of painting.”

“I wish they'd let us use them in class. We have to use
waxed
paper.”

“Oh, really? Not even disposable palettes?”

“Nuh-uh. We use waxed paper and Popsicle sticks.”

“To paint?”

“No! To mix.”

“Oh,” she laughs. “No palette knives?”

“Even the
word
knife isn't allowed on campus.”

She laughs again and says to Grams, “Quite a character you've got here.”

Grams smiles, but Hudson's hand comes down on my shoulder, and he says, “I think Sammy's just a little excited to see a real studio.”

Diane laughs again. “Well, as you can see, there's really
not much to it. And I'm afraid it's a bit of a mess. I get so involved, and then I forget to tidy up.”

“It's your work environment,” Hudson says, then points to the canvas on the easel. “Is that the latest masterpiece?”

She shakes her head and sighs. “Let's hope. I've actually been struggling with it. Maybe tomorrow will be more productive than today has been.”

Now, I was pretty interested in looking around a little. I mean, I could see scrolls of canvas and tools and brushes that were really different from the supplies in Miss Kuzkowski's classroom. But we weren't actually even inside, and then the phone starts ringing again.

“Oh
dear,
” Diane says. “Someone is being annoyingly persistent.”

“You probably should see who it is,” Grams says. “Please don't think me rude …,” she says as she pulls the door closed.

So I say, “Ms. Reijden? It was really nice of you to let me interview you.”

She ushers us along, saying, “It was my pleasure, Sammy. And I do hope we'll all see each other again sometime soon. You're certainly delightful company.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Grams says when Diane lets us out the front door, but inside she's stewing. Stewing big time.

So as we're walking along the pathway I whisper to Grams, “And what did you discover, snooping around?”

She frowns. “Nothing.”

“You looked pretty hard, too, didn't you.”

She shrugs and frowns some more. “I really can't believe you went snooping around her house. Do you know how mad you would have been at me if I—”

“Shhh!”

Hudson looks at us over his shoulder. “What are you two conspiring about?”

“Nothing!” we say together.

He stops in his tracks. “What on earth are you up to?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Grams says, her nose hoisted primly in the air. But then the strangest thing happens. All at once, Grams' nose drops, her eyes bug, and her face turns white as winter.

“Grams? Grams, what's wrong? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Listen,” she whispers.

Then I hear it—
brum-bum-bum-bum-bum, brum-bumbum-bum-bum.
And it's getting louder.

And
louder.

And when it comes into view, I realize I'm right.

Grams
is
seeing a ghost.

A ghost that's riding a Harley.

TEN   

Hudson looks from Grams to the Harley-Davidson thumping up the driveway, then back to Grams again. “Good lord, Rita, what's come over you?”

The motorcycle rider's wearing brown chaps, a leather jacket with long fringed sleeves, black boots, and one of those Hitler helmets. It's not Gramps. It
can't
be Gramps. But Grams is still frozen stiff, so I whisper, “Take a deep breath. It's not him.”

Her head bobs like a dashboard toy and she says, “I know,” but she's still not breathing right. So I whisper in her ear, “Maybe now would be a good time to try fainting … ?”

That gets her heart pumping again, let me tell you. Her head whips my way and her arms cross in front of her as she snaps, “Never!”

I shrug. “You looked like you were about to.”
“Hrmph.”

“What is going
on
with the two of you?” Hudson asks over the sound of the Harley.

“Nothing!” Grams tells him, then throws her head back and marches down the driveway, passing by the motorcyclist without even glancing at him. And when I
catch up to her, she keeps right on trucking, her arms pumping, her chin leading the way.