Page 7 of The Children of Eve (Charlie Parker #22)

CHAPTER VII

For more than two decades, the first Friday of each month had been Art Walk night in Portland. During the summer, craft stalls sprang up along Congress Street, galleries opened late, and local artists took advantage of the occasion to launch new collections. In winter and spring, when the days were too short and the nights too long, the Art Walk added liveliness to the city and gave people an excuse to move around instead of hunkering down in one place while waiting for the sun to return. You didn’t necessarily have to love art to enjoy the Art Walk; you just had to like it better than nothing at all.

The Triton Gallery was the latest addition to the Maine art scene. Situated in an old warehouse off Forest Avenue, within striking distance of the upmarket Batson River Brewing & Distilling, the gallery’s considerable square footage had already proven popular with artists who favored large-scale installations. Of course, those artists first had to impress the owner, Mark Triton, but Zetta Nadeau must have managed it because her latest pieces were now filling its spaces. Zetta worked in metal, creating abstract and figurative sculptures, and was gaining a national reputation. A former state governor had even asked her to design and construct a pair of ornamental gates for his property, a lucrative commission at a time when Zetta needed the money. She’d told him to take a hike on the grounds that he was a jackass, and while she couldn’t prevent jackasses from buying her art, she wasn’t about to start producing it at their behest.

No former governors were present at the Triton Gallery on this particular evening, but enough of the local great-and-goods had shown up to add color to the society page of the Maine Sunday Telegram . Triton himself was absent, but he wasn’t a Maine native and had business interests that extended beyond the Northeast. Instead, the gallery’s curator, Grace Holmes, took care of the introductions, praising Zetta as one of the state’s most striking and innovative young artists and lauding the works on display as evidence of a new phase in her development. I thought Holmes went on too long, and there was an edge to her voice that hinted at desperation, as though she was trying hard to argue a case about which she remained unconvinced. It explained a mood that felt restrained—so much so, in fact, that I’d heard someone ask when we might be permitted to view the body. This was Zetta’s first exhibition since a disastrous opening in New York three years earlier, the subject of a legendary takedown in The New York Times , the kind that acquaintances discussed with sympathy tinged by secret relish and rivals shared with outright joy, if tempered in the wiser by a sense of “There but for the grace of God…” Where the Times led, others followed, resulting in a pile-on that had almost destroyed Zetta’s confidence, not to mention her career.

Now here she was, presenting her first show since the Times mauling, albeit on a local stage. She specialized in oversized compositions in bronze and steel that, on closer examination, revealed their resemblance to tortured beings, in the manner of that old Warren Zevon lyric about trees like crucified thieves. For the Triton Gallery, Zetta had reined herself in somewhat, and alongside a central sextet of compositions ranging from six to twelve feet in height were smaller works that did not exceed two feet, with a few no more than half that size. In truth, they looked lost in the vast zone, like afterthoughts to a conversation that had since moved on.

Sharon Macy peered at the price tag on the figurine nearest us, which resembled a twisted angel.

“It’s eight thousand dollars,” she said. “Can it be worth that much? I once paid five hundred dollars for a painting and didn’t sleep right for a month. If I spent eight thousand, I might expire from insomnia.”

“Ask Louis,” I told her. “He knows more about art than I do.”

Behind her, Louis sipped his wine—and it really was his. He’d brought his own bottle, slipping ten dollars to the kid at the drinks table to ensure it was kept for private consumption. Louis had been at Portland exhibition openings before and wasn’t about to have his taste buds violated if it could be avoided. He wore a light brown tweed jacket over a near-matching vest and rust-colored trousers, finished off by a box-fresh white shirt and brown brogues. He looked like he ought to be hunting foxes or whipping a footman.

“I like the piece,” he said. “Not eight thousand dollars’ worth, maybe, but I do like it. The rest, not so much.”

Beside him, his own Angel said: “You don’t even like me eight thousand dollars’ worth.”

“True,” said Louis, “but at least the art will age better.”

Angel had dressed up for the occasion, which meant a strict no-sneakers policy and passing acquaintance with an iron. He, too, was drinking Louis’s wine. We all were. Out of solidarity with the masses, I’d tried what was on offer, but it was too sweet for my liking. It would have been too sweet for a kiddie alcoholic.

Macy squinted at Louis. Small and dark, she had long since recognized that the advantages of being underestimated because of her appearance and gender far outweighed the disadvantages—not that anyone in Maine police circles had any illusions about her abilities. Macy acted as liaison, official and otherwise, between the Portland PD and external agencies, including the AG’s office, the state police, and the FBI, but was far from being a suit. As a rookie, she’d been blooded in a gun battle out on Sanctuary Island that left a lot of people dead or missing. Some of the bodies were never found, but then Sanctuary was an odd place and always had been. Macy rarely spoke of what had happened there, not even to me. I knew enough about Sanctuary to be grateful for her discretion.

“What?” asked Louis, as she continued to give him the stink eye.

“You’re mean,” said Macy.

“Is that my wine you’re drinking?”

“Maybe.”

“How is it?”

“Perfectly palatable.”

“Do you want to keep drinking it, or would you prefer to take your chances with the stuff in the box?”

Macy turned to Angel.

“You’re on your own,” she said.

Only in recent months had Macy begun to socialize with Angel and Louis. In fact, only lately had Macy and I let it be known around Portland that we were an item. I wasn’t well-loved in the law enforcement community, local or national, and Macy’s involvement with me, a serving detective in the Portland PD, brought complications. As for Louis and Angel, they preferred to keep their distance from police in any shape or form but had, for my sake, made an exception for Macy. In turn, she appeared to have bonded particularly with Louis, who rarely bonded with anyone. Each seemed to have discovered something of theirself in the other, which I regarded as worrying.

I watched Zetta Nadeau circulate. I’d known her since she was a kid and wished her well, which was why we were here. She was shepherded by an older man who kept her supplied with sparkling water. From the way they touched, I thought they might be intimate. I hadn’t seen him around before.

“Who’s the guy?” Macy asked.

“I’m guessing a new boyfriend,” I said. “He’s got some city miles on him.”

“Huh,” said Macy.

She and Louis exchanged a glance.

“You too?” said Louis.

“Yeah, me too,” said Macy.

“What am I missing?” I asked.

“The new boyfriend, if that’s what he is—” said Macy.

“Is on edge,” finished Louis.

“He’s been watching the guests enter and leave,” said Macy, “checking faces, sizing people up, only showing his back to the ones he doesn’t regard as a threat.”

“He gets close to anyone he’s worried about,” said Louis, “so he can brush against them.”

“Looking for weapons,” said Macy. “He’s pretty good, knows what he’s doing.”

“It could explain why he’s wearing that jacket despite the heat in here,” said Louis. “He may be carrying.”

“Perhaps his girlfriend’s worried about hostile critics,” said Angel.

“They tend to come armed with pens, not swords,” I told him.

But Macy and Louis were right about Zetta’s new guy, and had spotted it before I did. I hid my irritation—at myself, not them. Well, possibly at them as well.

“Has anyone threatened Zetta Nadeau?” Macy asked me.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Would you have heard?”

“Probably.”

“Then it could be it’s not her safety he’s concerned about,” said Louis.

“If not hers,” offered Macy, “then whose?”

I saw the boyfriend making his way toward Zetta again.

“How about we wish her well before we leave,” I said, offering Macy my arm, “and take a closer look at the newbie while we’re at it.”

We cut a path to where Zetta was accepting compliments, sincere and otherwise, her arms folded defensively across her chest, her smile too fixed. She wore a cream silk dress that concealed some of her tattoos and the absence of extraneous flesh on her bones. Her hair was naturally very red and cut short. Combined with the dress it lent her a resemblance—as Angel remarked—to a decorated matchstick.

I introduced Zetta to Macy, and she freed one arm for long enough to shake hands.

“It was good of you to come,” said Zetta, and the analogy of a wake arose again.

“This is quite the turnout,” I told her.

“I guess.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked. Clearly, everything wasn’t. Seen up close, her smile was not merely fixed but brittle, and she seemed near tears.

“First-night nerves,” she said.

Before either of us could respond, the new boyfriend appeared, placing a hand protectively at the small of her back. Zetta introduced him as Wyatt Riggins and presented us to him in turn, but got no further than naming names because Grace Holmes came along, men with money trailing behind, and Zetta was forced to turn aside to speak to them.

Wyatt Riggins was about a decade older than Zetta, and thin the way 304 stainless-steel wire is thin, so they made a good couple. His hair was blond, veering toward gray in places, and he wore it shaggy, though not studiedly so. His skin was tan and bore traces of sun damage around the eyes. As Louis had noted, he kept his jacket on, but if he was packing, it was probably something compact: the jacket was baggy, but not so as to be able to conceal a cannon. The way he carried himself suggested ex-military. His expression wasn’t unfriendly, but it was definitely guarded.

Behind Riggins, Angel ghosted by, barely touching him. Riggins picked up on it nonetheless, but by then Angel was gone. If Riggins hadn’t spotted that we were sizing him up earlier, he knew it now, and was aware he was being assessed by experts—or, given my earlier failure, some experts and me. I watched a veil descend over his eyes, like electrified gel activating on airplane glass as a shield against the light. He didn’t offer to shake hands, and I didn’t force the issue. He smelled faintly of pot, but that wasn’t remarkable. A good share of the city’s population smelled of it. You could attend a cremation in Portland and get high when the body began burning.

“Where are you from, Wyatt?” I asked. “You don’t sound local.”

“The South, originally.”

“There’s a lot of South.”

“Just the way we like it. We fought a war for it.”

“Well, that and slavery,” said Macy. She smiled at him so sweetly that only an idiot could have mistaken it as anything but false, and Wyatt Riggins didn’t scream “idiot.”

“For the most part, I’m not in favor,” Riggins replied. “Though I make an exception for the Chinese prisoners who sew my sneakers.”

He returned Macy’s smile. It emphasized his wrinkles, and I thought he might have had even more miles on the clock than I’d originally guessed. Still, I could understand why Zetta was attracted to him. He exuded a strength and shrewdness—and toughness, too. I’d have deliberated hard before crossing him.

“Where did you serve?” I asked.

“What makes you think I did?”

“Just a hunch.”

He drawled the answer, all “aw, shucks” modesty.

“I moved around, but I was just a Remington raider. I liked my desk, where the biggest risk of injury was picking up a paper cut.”

“Your desk must have been by a window. You got some sun.”

“It was hard to avoid.”

“Out there in Around.”

“Yeah. It’s big, like the South. And what do you do, Mr. Parker?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“That explains the questions.” He turned to Macy. “And you, ma’am, I didn’t catch your occupation.”

“Police.”

Riggins’s expression didn’t falter, but that gel dimmed another tone.

“Sounds like you two were meant to be together,” he said. “It’s nice when things work out that way.”

He placed a hand on Zetta’s arm—“You need anything, just let me know. I’ll keep an eye on you”—before wishing Macy and me a pleasant evening and fading into the crowd.

The moneymen, if that’s what they were, had moved on, Grace Holmes with them. Macy discreetly disengaged herself from me so I could speak with Zetta alone. More guests were closing in on her, one or two watching Riggins, wanting to be sure he was gone. They might not have known any more about him than I did, but they sensed he didn’t belong, and his presence made them uneasy. Over to my right, Holmes put a red sticker on one of the smaller pieces. Someone applauded. Zetta acknowledged them by raising her glass before looking away.

“This is more than first-night nerves, Zetta,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Not unless you can rewind time,” she replied. “I don’t have to read the reviews to know I’m dead in the water. I’ve been found wanting again, but I figured as much as soon as we began assembling the show. It doesn’t work.”

“Is it the venue?”

“It’s the artist. It’s me. Something’s gone wrong, and I can’t figure out what it is. See that red sticker? It’s a pity sale. I’ll bet you a bright new nickel that Mark Triton left instructions for Holmes to buy a minor piece or two if the mood warranted. If it doesn’t start a rush, it’ll save some of my blushes.”

She was only moments away from throwing her glass at the floor and vanishing into the night. Hers was a very particular and public humiliation, all the more intense for being so subtle.

“Any other kind of trouble?” I asked.

“Just with my career. Wait, was that what Wyatt’s grilling was about? I overheard you interrogating him.”

“He strikes me as being a little on the tense side. I wondered if it was solely on your behalf. How long have you two been a couple?”

“Just a few months, but I like him. As for tension, this is unfamiliar territory for him. He’s not comfortable in the art world, or what’s passing for it tonight. Also, I think he had a harder time in the service than he admits.” She paused. “He cries out in the night.”

I let it go. Riggins was solicitous of Zetta, and she was a grown woman. If she was making a mistake with him, she’d earned that privilege. I kissed her cheek.

“Good luck with the show,” I said. “I hope you’re wrong about it.”

“Yeah, me too.”

She prepared to accept the embrace of a man wearing overlarge red spectacles and the kind of check suit last favored by vaudeville comics.

“Hey?” she added.

I looked back at her.

“Thanks for caring enough to ask. About Wyatt, I mean. But you don’t have to worry. He’s okay.”

Which was probably what Charles Forbes said about John Wilkes Booth before admitting him to Lincoln’s theater box. Still, it was none of my business, and I had no shortage of other people’s troubles to occupy me. If that ever ceased to be the case, I’d be out of a job, but it wasn’t likely in the short term.

“So?” asked Macy.

“Zetta says she’s okay. She says Riggins is okay, too.”

“That’s reassuring,” said Louis. “Be a pity if she became the first woman to make that mistake.”

“No gun,” said Angel, “and his pants are too narrow to take an ankle holster, but he’s carrying a knife: something short with a fixed blade, worn horizontally, not vertically, the handle within easy reach when he hitches the jacket.”

“Maybe he whittles,” said Louis.

“A gun would be better,” I said.

“Not for whittling,” said Louis, “but unless he tries to whittle one of us, he’s someone else’s problem. Let’s go eat.”

So we prepared to leave. I paused by the door and saw Zetta Nadeau’s head bobbing at the center of a crowd while Grace Holmes hovered at the periphery, all strained smiles. Wyatt Riggins’s attention was elsewhere. He was leaning against a wall, playing with an old flip phone, like a man waiting—or wishing—to be summoned away.

“Riggins?” guessed Macy.

“Just curious.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “But a lot of it.”