A Dangerous Talent (An Alix London Mystery) Page 4

  Her buoyant mood punctured, she returned to the kitchen, where she stood at the counter and slowly drank the soup from the mug. Was she lonely? Was that what her problem was? It made sense. Once, eons ago (actually, it had been nine years ago, just after Geoff’s conviction), she’d briefly been married. It had been a disaster that, coupled with her father’s disgrace, had just about flattened her. She’d crawled into her shell for months, feeling oh so sorry for herself, and avoiding people, even friends. Then, living in Italy, there had been a language barrier for the year or so it took her to become fluent. And somewhere along the line, she’d turned into a loner without really thinking about it. At twenty-nine.

  She’d been in Seattle almost eight months now. When was the last time she’d had a date or what passed nowadays for a date? When was the last time she’d sat with a friend for a gossip over a glass of wine at someplace like Chris’s wine bar? How many people did she know that she could honestly call friends? Answers: a) two months ago, b) never, c) none.

  At ten o’clock, subdued and even melancholy—how strange, how unreasonable one’s moods could be—she went to bed.

  For a change, she’d remembered to set the Mr. Coffee before going to sleep, so she awoke to the welcoming smell of it, refreshed and back in good spirits. It was foggy outside—she couldn’t see more than halfway across Puget Sound—but who cared? Today was a new day, with plenty to do. Last night’s blahs, so unlike her, had been nothing more than the inevitable adrenaline crash following the exciting events of the day; she realized that now.

  She went and poured herself a cup of the coffee and brought it back to bed. There, sitting with a pillow propped behind her, she sipped the fragrant black brew and gave herself over to reliving the delicious events of the previous evening and the prospects that lay ahead. She would spend the morning at SAM’s library boning up on O’Keeffe and bringing herself up to date on Santa Fe’s art scene. She’d have lunch in the museum cafeteria to save time, then go back up to the library—

  The telephone was in her hand before she’d quite realized that she’d heard it ring. “Hello?”

  The jolly, chuckly voice exploded in her ear. “Good morning, my love—”

  She winced. Her father. When was she going to remember to get caller ID, so that she could head him off?

  “Hello, Geoff,” she mumbled, sagging back against the pillow.

  “My dear, I’m calling to ask how things went last night with your O’Keeffe collector. Did they go well?”

  “They went fine.” She could feel the irritation building up, tightening the muscles at the back of her neck. How did he always manage to call her at just the right time—the wrong time—to put a damper on her spirits?

  “You got the job?”

  “Yes.”

  “O’Keeffe?”

  “Yes. Look, Geoff, I have to—”

  “I was telling Tiny about it, my dear, and he has a few words of caution for you. He’s standing right here. Tiny—”

  “No, I’d rather not speak with him.”

  A momentary pause. “Of course not, if you don’t want to.”

  She heard Tiny’s slow, hurt voice in the background: “She don’t wanna talk to me?”

  Her heart wrenched. It was the first time she’d heard “Uncle Beniamino’s” voice in well over a decade. A big—well, huge—lovable lug of a guy who seemed—well, was—not terrifically brain-endowed, he was an extraordinary craftsman who could imitate just about anything. For her fourteenth birthday he had made for her a beautiful oval wall mirror set in a painted wooden panel decorated with wonderfully done cherubs cavorting among the clouds. The whole thing looked like something from the background of a sixteenth-century Florentine portrait. Considering his huge hands with their sausage fingers, it had been amazing. It had been the one possession she’d kept when she’d sold everything, clothes and all, and gone to Italy to study with Santullo.

  “No, I don’t,” she said through clenched teeth. “I have to go, Geoff.” She hung up.

  She was seething. How like Geoff to manage to make her feel guilty about Tiny. What did she owe Tiny? So he’d been nice to her when she was a kid, big deal. He was a crook and a cheat, just as Geoff was a crook and a cheat and a parasitic leech. All those times he’d been to their apartment in Manhattan, along with her father’s other “friends”? They’d probably been planning the next time they were going to rip off some defenseless, widowed old lady who’d been left her husband’s collection and was in over her head.

  And yet she did feel guilty, damn it. Why should she feel guilty? Why didn’t her father feel guilty? Besides, if he was so interested, so tenderly concerned with her welfare, how come he’d waited until this morning to ask how her meeting had gone? She’d finally shared something of herself with him yesterday—the biggest thing in her life right now—and despite all that “interest,” he hadn’t even bothered to call, not until this morning. What stopped him from calling last night? If he cared so much, why hadn’t there been a message from him waiting on the answering—

  Wait a minute, this is ridiculous. I’m mad at him when he calls me, and I’m mad at him because he doesn’t call me? What kind of sense does that make? It’s almost as if…as if—

  When the unwelcome thought finally cracked through the stone wall she’d put up to keep it out, she couldn’t believe it, she refused to believe it. And yet, deep inside, she knew it was so.

  The voice she’d longed to hear on the answering machine last night, the voice anxiously wanting to know how things had gone with Chris, how things were going with her life in general—it had been her father’s. But why would she…how would she…

  With the wall breached, other thoughts, unwelcome and unsolicited, thoughts that had been lying in wait a long time, poured through in a rush. Why, really, had she dropped out of Harvard? Had giving the money to Geoff truly made it impossible for her to continue? With her top-notch grades, couldn’t she have approached the school for a scholarship or even a loan, and finished up and then gone on to a graduate degree? She’d be an associate professor at some good university by now, someone with a steady income and a nice social life. Instead, she was a broke, pitiful, almost-thirty-year-old living in someone else’s condo and scrabbling like mad to break into a tough, dicey profession. If you could call “art advising” a profession.

  Was Geoff honestly to blame for that? Would he even have accepted that money if he’d known it was her college fund? Well, she already knew the answer to that; she’d known from the beginning. Why else would she have gone to the trouble of making sure he didn’t know?

  There’d been plenty of other crossroads and decision points along the way that had brought her to where she was now, and Geoff hadn’t had a thing to do with any of them. They were all hers. On the other hand, it had sure as hell been Geoff’s doing—Geoff’s greed and selfishness—that had derailed her life in the first place. If he hadn’t—

  She jerked her head. Why was she going through all this right now? She’d had nine long years to think it through, to work it out. Instead, she’d just licked her wounds and blamed her father for them. Was she on her way to becoming one of those sad-sack forty-or fifty-year-olds who go around laying all their faults and failures at the feet of their unloving, or overloving, or under-loving parents?

  She shook her head again and sighed. One thing was for sure—she had some long overdue head-straightening to do.

  CHAPTER 3

  The man was tall, lean, good-looking, evenly tanned. In his midthirties. A little sharklike, but that might simply be because of those wraparound aviator sunglasses and the casually arrogant way he lounged in his chair. He had caught Liz Coane’s attention the minute he’d walked in, and she’d been watching him ever since—discreetly, of course, out of the corner of her eye so he wouldn’t notice. He was rich, too, but not show-off rich, just comfortable-with-himself rich. Liz, with her keen and knowledgeable eye for fashion, could tell that just from his clothes. His shoes were bu
ttery Gucci loafers—seven hundred dollars a pair—and his sport coat was a beautiful, soft, mocha-colored cashmere, straight out of Brioni’s fall catalog, that had to have set him back a cool three thousand. But he wore them in an unfussy way, with a plain, open-collared white shirt and a pair of faded denims (designer jeans, to be sure, but genuinely faded, the old-fashioned way, not from being acid-washed but from long wear). His short, dark hair had not been cut in a corner barbershop. You couldn’t get a crisply mowed, beautifully layered Caesar cut in any corner barbershop she’d ever heard of. Two hundred bucks, minimum.

  He definitely wasn’t her type, this guy—too smooth, too polished. She liked them with rougher edges. But he was definitely…interesting. He practically smelled of money aching to be made. And if there was one thing Liz Coane was in dire need of at the moment, even more than usual, it was money.

  He sat several tables away with Doris Goudge of all people, the empty-headed old lady who had the kitschy Avanti Gallery on Gallisteo Street, and they were deep in a discussion about art. Not that she was close enough to hear what they were talking about, but what else could it be? This was Santacafé, after all, and it was Friday afternoon, and it was damn near an immutable law that if any serious art-related business was happening on a sunny Friday afternoon in Santa Fe, the tree-shaded, adobe-walled dining patio of Santacafé was where it was going down.

  Every table was occupied, and at each one were two or three people—dealers, collectors, artists both established and trying to break in—all with their heads together, doing art business: selling, buying, promoting, conning. Hell, if you were just some poor schmuck tourist who’d read about the food and the genteel, 150-year-old ambience of the place and wandered in for a decent lunch on a Friday afternoon, you were out of luck. Because the business of art came first in Santa Fe. It was the lifeblood of the city. As American cities went, Santa Fe was tiny—508th in population, according to the last census—but it comprised the third largest art market in the country. Third! Only in New York and LA did more art-related money change hands.

  Everybody in the restaurant knew everybody else, of course, or almost everybody else, but Liz hadn’t seen the guy with the shades before. She could make a pretty good guess as to who he was, though, and she was eager to find out if she was right. She took another sip of her margarita and put it down. “Cody Mack, do you happen to know who that is?” she asked her table companion. “Over there, talking to Doris?”

  Still chewing at his chicken enchilada, Cody Mack turned around in his chair.

  Liz rolled her eyes. “For Christ’s sake, don’t be so obvious.”

  “No, I don’t know who he is,” Cody Mack said. And then, mumpishly: “What do you care, anyway?”

  Oh God, do I see a snit coming on? Liz thought. Is Boy Wonder actually jealous?

  The Boy Wonder in question was Cody Mack Burley, Liz’s latest protégé in a rather too-long line of boy wonders and protégés—or rather, Liz’s latest soon-to-be ex-protégé. Barely so-so as an artist, but vigorous if not overly sensitive or imaginative in the sack, he and Liz had been an item for six months now, and inasmuch as six months was about par for the course, he was about to be dumped. The truth of it was, he’d already been dumped; he just didn’t know it because she hadn’t gotten around to facing the final, inevitable, boring scene when he would learn to his astonishment that even a gorgeous body, a honeyed, suggestive Mississippi accent, and a goatlike randiness could outwear their welcome if they didn’t go with brains, or talent, or personality, or character. In Cody Mack’s case, even one of them would have helped.

  Perceptiveness was another trait that he was missing. Liz had had something going with his replacement for over two weeks now, and Cody Mack had yet to notice a thing. Even what should have been the telling fact that Gregor Gorzynski, the brooding, intellectual, heartstoppingly handsome young Polish artist was having an opening at the Blue Coyote tonight had failed to penetrate Cody Mack’s bland self-regard. Of course Gregor wasn’t really much of an artist either; in fact, you had to stretch things to call him an artist at all. A self-proclaimed “post-minimalist constructionist,” he worked exclusively in toothpicks, M&M’s, string, noodles, and superglue. As far as Liz was concerned, the stuff belonged in a garbage can, but then garbage sold quite well these days, so who was she to criticize?

  “Don’t worry about it,” she told Cody Mack, “he’s not my type. And don’t,” she couldn’t help adding, “chew with your goddamn mouth open.” This is what came, she thought wearily, of going around with twenty-four-year-olds. When was she going to learn? (At least Gregor was all of twenty-seven.)

  Cody Mack put on his sulking face. “I wasn’t chewin’ with my mouth open.”

  Yes, you were, Liz thought tiredly, but the hell with it.

  He continued to scowl at her. How was it she’d never noticed before how much he looked like those pictures of glowering, dumb Neanderthals when he sulked. That heavy brow, that mean, fleshy mouth—

  “And don’t think I don’t know that margarita you got there is a double.”

  “What the hell business is it of yours what I—” she began, then clamped her mouth shut and glanced around. Nobody was looking at them. Good. There was a scene in the offing, all right, but this wasn’t the place to have it. This is your last free lunch on me, buddy boy, she thought. Your final meal. I’m moving on to greener pastures. What had possessed her to take up with him in the first place? Whoever heard of an artist named Cody Mack, for Christ’s sake? Whoever heard of an artist from Mississippi?

  At the other table, she saw that the stranger had gotten up and gone inside. “Stay here,” she told Cody Mack. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to—”

  “Just sit there and wait. And shut up. And close your mouth when you chew.”

  Cody Mack reddened and flung down his fork. “Hey, I don’t take orders from you. You’re not my f—”

  “Oh, stuff it, will you? For Christ’s sake.”

  She worked her way around the original old Spanish well, now restored and prettily roofed, that was the patio’s centerpiece, and through the crowd, exchanging nods and smiles and seemingly delighted hellos with people at almost every step. When she reached Doris’s table she sat down.

  Doris glanced up from her apple tart dessert. “Oh, hello, Liz. Sorry, I’ve got company. He just went outside to take a call on his cell phone. All this thick adobe interferes with the reception.”

  “I know, Doris. I’ll only stay a minute. I just wanted to ask you who your friend was.”

  “He’s not really my friend. I just met him yesterday. He stopped by the shop. He’s a dealer from Boston. Name’s Roland de Beauvais. He goes by Rollie, though,” she added with an unattractive simper.

  “Roland de Beauvais,” repeated Liz. “Ooh-la-la. Is he French?”

  “No, just French ancestry. He’s very, very Boston.” Bahston, she said, to emphasize the point. “He’s only been here a day or two.” While she spoke, Doris noisily and energetically stuffed her face with tart. Liz had to look away. Jesus, am I the only one in Santa Fe who chews with her mouth closed? “Gary Selway sent him over to me, but I’m not sure I can help him.”

  “Yes, I’d heard there was a back-East dealer checking things out. What’s he looking for?”

  “American Moderns.”

  “American Moderns?” Liz repeated, her eyebrows going up. This was better than she’d hoped. “I’m getting a Chadwick on consignment this week, and I’m pretty sure I can get my hands on a couple more. Marsden Hartley too. Maybe even—” She hesitated, not wanting to lay it on too thick. On the other hand, this was Doris Goudge she was talking to. Subtlety would be a mistake. “And maybe even a Georgia O’Keeffe or two,” she finished.

  “Well, that’s certainly more than I can do,” Doris said resignedly, then looked up with a mildly avid gleam in her eye. “Would you like me to refer him to you?”

  “Does he understand what stuff li
ke that costs?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s quite knowledgeable. Plus, I get the impression that money is not a problem.”

  “Well then, you bet I’d like you to refer him to me.” It was exactly what she’d like. She smiled her most winning, grateful smile. Now that Doris had finished the tart it was possible to look at her again.

  Doris hesitated. “Er, standard arrangement? Five percent on anything he buys from you?”

  Liz’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t do the standard arrangement, Doris,” she said coldly. “Two percent.”

  “But…but everybody does—”

  “But I don’t. Now, of course I can contact him directly myself, although I prefer not doing that. But if that’s what you—”

  “No, no,” Doris said hurriedly. “Two percent is fine. I mean, if that’s your usual commission.”

  Liz smiled. “Thank you, Doris,” she said warmly. “I appreciate that.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Liz—” She paused, troubled, seemingly of two minds, then decided to go ahead. “I should mention, though…well, I’d be careful around him. I think…well, I think he might be…bent, you know? I wouldn’t want you to wind up in any trouble.”

  “Bent! Why would you say that?” This was getting more appealing by the minute.

  Doris shrugged. “It’s nothing he said or did, it’s just a feeling.” She looked over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t on his way back. “There’s something…sharp about him.”

  Liz leaned forward, frowning. “Sharp?”

  “In the sense of unethical. I don’t think he gives much of a hoot where the paintings come from or how they got here.”