CHAPTER TWENTY

 

 

A strange look passed between Dad and Ida, but before I could ask what that meant, the doorbell dinged. Maverick barked and lunged toward the entry. I nabbed his collar and whispered. “Quiet.”

“I’ll get it,” Ida said.

I scratched under Maverick’s collar, and he leaned in for more. Then he laid down at my feet and put his head on his paws, but his eyes darted between me and the doorway.

Cold air preceded the caller Ida dragged into the kitchen. “This is a pleasant surprise.” She plunked the man into a chair at the table and said, “Coffee, tea, or …” She shifted her eyes to the decanter. “… something else entirely.”

“Got a beer?”

When he removed his knitted cap and unleashed an untidy head of hair, I sucked in a breath. The cup of hot chocolate sloshed on its way to my lips. Maverick’s head came up. Last evening’s late-night visitor sat at my kitchen table. At least I wasn’t alone this time.

I petted Maverick. He relaxed a smidge.

“Meet Jordan Quintz.” Ida pulled a can from the fridge. Jordan nodded. “This is Harry’s daughter, Katie.”

“My Auntie said I owe you an apology.” His eyes searched Ida’s face.

“I can’t imagine why.” Ida inclined her head toward me as she poured more wine. “Katie?”

Jordan looked warily at Maverick and then from Ida to Dad to me. “This your place?”

I nodded and got a good look at his face. His itty bitty pale gray eyes sat atop a plump bed of cheeks flushed bright red. His thin dry lips turned down before disappearing altogether. Mousy hair, with a mind of its own, circled his face and his dark eyebrows crawled across his forehead. Okay, I was being petty, but he’d scared the bejeezus out of me and I wasn’t inclined to be complimentary.

Ida handed Dad a glass of wine and set a can of Surley in front of Jordan. I took a sip of chocolate to calm my nerves although I knew it was probably the smooth Bailey’s providing the warmth and relaxation.

“I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble.” His recitation sounded rehearsed. He popped the top on the can and took a long swig.

Ida raised her head. “What trouble?”

“Auntie Grace went ballistic when you didn’t come for supper.” He took another huge gulp. More likely, she’d needed the distraction of her friends to bolster her courage and cover the awkwardness of having someone she scarcely knew stay with her.

“I left you a message with our regrets—” Ida began.

“I might have forgotten to pass along the message.” His voice sounded as whiny as it had when Miss Grace had hauled him home last evening. “So, I went out.”

“What are you babbling about?” Ida’s fists went to her hips.

At least he had the wherewithal to look embarrassed. “They make great margaritas at that Mexican joint, and I had a few. I got a little mixed up when I came home last night. Every yard around here looks the same covered in snow. I thought this was Auntie Grace’s place.” He nodded at my door. “When my key didn’t work, I might’ve seemed frustrated.”

Downright nasty, more like it.

His right hand snaked across the table. “No hard feelings?” He waggled his fingers.

Dad’s admonition to ‘forgive and forget’ pounded in my head as three pairs of eyes locked on me. I relented and leaned forward.

A grin flashed across his face. “I wouldn’t want to upset my new neighbors before ever setting up shop.” My hand halted on its way across the table, but it was close enough for him to grab and crunch my fingers. “Thanks. Auntie Grace will be happy to know you’ve accepted my apology.”

“I didn’t know there were any homes for sale in this neighborhood,” I said, massaging my knuckles. Maverick’s head came up again.

“I’m not buying. I’m moving in with Auntie Grace.”

“Oh,” Ida said.

Jordan glanced at the clock, threw back the last of his beer, and rose. “Gotta run.”

He disappeared in another blast of arctic air and Maverick stood and looked at me as if to say, Good riddance.

Ida eyed me suspiciously. “What was that all about?”

My ears grew hot, and my face flushed as I remembered cowering behind the door. “He tried to break in last night. I called the police and Ronnie came. Although he wasn’t very helpful, it should be on record. And poor Miss Grace had to haul him home.”

Ida’s eyes looked like green saucers. The knuckles on Dad’s hand went white as he gripped the stem of the goblet.

“It’s fine. Really.”

Ida’s phone buzzed. She checked the screen and her brow furrowed. “It’s Phillip’s assistant.” She pressed a button and answered somberly, “Anita, how are you?” She stepped out of the kitchen.

“Dad, how’s Elizabeth?”

I couldn’t read him. He examined his hands for an answer. He took a sip of wine then carefully placed the glass within the triangle formed by his thumbs and forefingers. “Ida and I carted home a carful of my belongings.”

I glanced around.

He chuckled. “I thought we’d be a little crowded so I offloaded it in Ida’s office where it will be out of the way, and I can take time to sort through it.” He savored a sip of wine. “It felt like we were severing a business partnership. Elizabeth’s so methodical. When I asked her why, she said it was all on her and that I shouldn’t concern myself. But Katie, she’s no longer the woman I married.” He sipped again. “She already has a renter. She’d like me to get everything out as soon as possible.”

After a long pause, I asked quietly, “Is there something else going on in her life?”

He shrugged. “She insists it’s just work, and we could use a break. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.”

Ida bounced back in, her mood brightened a bit. “Anita’s been at a self-imposed retreat, remembering Phillip, working, and designing. She had developmental photos of Phillip’s pieces and found some canvases of earlier drafts they’d worked on. She’s been studying with Phillip for a while, and she thinks she can recreate the piece that Grace purchased.” Ida’s face lit up. “She wants me to bring my keepsakes over right away so she can get started on my complementary encaustic. Even with the tragedy of his death, she’s going to try. Isn’t that wonderful?”

I nodded.

“Good. Let’s go. We’ll take your new car.” She marched into her apartment.

“Isn’t it a bit late?” I said, and hoped Dad would put a halt to our evening excursion.

“It’s Ida, the steamroller.” Dad placed his hand over mine. He gazed out the window. “It stopped snowing.”

I winked at my dad. “Wanna join us?”

He let go of my hand and grunted. “Not for all the sun in San Diego.”

I armed myself against the cold, zipping my jacket and pulling my cap down over my ears. By the time I’d cinched my boots and tugged on my gloves, Ida stood at the door, tapping her foot.

She clutched my arm on our short walk through the fresh, fluffy white wonderland. Yard lights and streetlamps glinted off the crystal carpet, winking like tiny diamonds. Faint notes of Christmas music lilted from the Farley’s house.

We slid into my new wheels, Dad’s pride and joy, and rolled onto the street where the glaze of ice sparkled on tree limbs and mailboxes. “Maybe we should wait for better conditions.”

“Nonsense.”

Nothing moved. We didn’t see a vehicle or person or animal. Even the branches were still.

“We could walk faster,” Ida said in a teasing voice.

“But not any safer.” I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my fingers tingled.

“Take a left.” She dictated the turns and we crawled through the empty streets. “Ronnie called with more questions about finding Phillip.”

My heart sped up. “What hadn’t he already asked?”

“He wanted to know about our teacher-student relationship, what happened at the gala, and why I stopped bidding. He asked if I’d heard any rumors about money Phillip might be coming into. All quite confusing.”

We skidded to a stop at the light controlling the last intersection before Anita’s house. When I touched the gas pedal, the wheels rotated without gaining traction and the weighty back end swerved. I let up and Ida’s head struck the headrest.

“Sorry. Maybe we should turn around.”

She shook her head and clenched her box. We both took a deep breath and rolled past the last few houses.

Anita opened a side door, and we entered an enclosure built with tall windows and skylights. The black-haired woman from the gala looked down on Ida. Sturdily built, she had the broad shoulders of a swimmer and the grace of a dancer.

“Who’s she?” she asked.

“Katherine Jean Wilk, my driver,” Ida said and smiled. “Katie, meet Anita Jones.”

Anita sniffed at the hand I offered. I retrieved it, examined it for some sign of its offensiveness, and stepped back. Ida set her box of treasures on the narrow wooden table in the entryway.

“What do you have for me, Ida?” Anita said, pulling on a pair of white cotton gloves and rubbing her hands together.

They hovered for a moment, then Ida opened the lid. Anita clucked and stirred the contents with her finger.

“These are wonderful. You’re sure you want to part with them?” For a second, her eyes seemed to blaze with gold.

“Yes. I can’t wait to display them in a piece.”

Anita drew the delicate fabric and brittle papers from the tin. She extracted the buttons and tugged a jeweler’s loupe from her pocket. Closing one eye, she scrutinized each as if it were a gem. She returned one button with a kind of reverence and arranged the rest of the items on a tray.

“Do you really think you can reconstruct the encaustic for Grace?” Ida asked.

Anita nodded. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Ida’s mementos.

“That would be wonderful.”

“Would you like to see?” She sounded like a little girl looking for approval.

She carried the tray and led us through a maze of easels propping up completed canvases. Anita had learned a lot from Phillip McCall. We stopped in front of one covered by a canvas tarp. Anita set the tray on a worktable. She grabbed the corner of the fabric and flung it over the top, revealing an extremely close reproduction of Miss Grace’s encaustic.

“This is one of our original constructs, but I haven’t finished building up the levels of wax.”

Ida blew out a stream of air. “You’ve done a beautiful job. It looks exactly like the one at the gala.” Ida lifted her chin. “You did the one at the gala.”

Anita blushed.

“Why would Phillip claim credit for your work?”

“That wasn’t his intention. We worked on it together.”

I squinted and curious characters took shape, bleeding through the ultra-polished semi-transparent wax, perhaps mapping where embedded items might be placed or a color change could occur. I cocked my head. The lighting shifted and the characters disappeared.

Anita lined up Ida’s items on the worktable. “I should have a good start on yours tomorrow as well.”

“Anita?” Ida’s voice lost some of its cheerfulness. “Who would have wanted Phillip dead?”

“I have absolutely no idea.” Her tone had changed too.

Ida blushed. “I didn’t mean to insinuate—"

A phone trilled and Anita’s hospitality gene shut off. She checked the screen and let it ring as she picked up what looked like a hair dryer and a brass sculpting tool. “I’ve got work to do. Please show yourselves out.”

Ida picked up the tin and the button rattled as she tiptoed toward the door. Neither of them took notice of me. I tilted my head again and caught another glimpse of the curious symbols on the canvas, then turned and slalomed through the labyrinth of art, marveling at the volume of her work.

Ida stood next to the car, bundled against the cold, and gazed into the starless sky, swaying to imagined music. I depressed the unlock button on the fob and, when she didn’t move, opened the passenger door for her and guided her to the seat.

The car idled for a moment. I asked, “What’s going on?”

Ida shook her head. “Art is a hobby for most of my students, an avocation, and they rarely follow in my footsteps. It’s not for lack of talent, but usually economics and motivation. I’ve applauded all my students and their triumphs in any field, but I understand and am more personally vested in the artists because I recognize the obstacles they face. Bobby worked especially hard and, with his rare gift, succeeded in the art of moviemaking. He accomplished much in his short film career, and his skills at drawing and painting were nothing to scoff at. When we lost him …” Her voice caught. Robert Bruckner’s death still knocked the wind out of her. “We lost a role model. He shared his talents and reinvested in our community. Phillip was just getting his wings and hadn’t yet learned to share his gifts. Now it’s Anita’s turn and I hope she follows in Bobby’s footsteps. They are all indeed gifted.”

“Was Anita also one of your students?”

“No, but I take pride in having taught her teacher.”

“You are gifted as well.”

She shook her head.

“Your art is hanging all over town.”

“I’m fortunate that my paintings have been so graciously accepted, but I’m only a good artist. When I nurtured Bobby, when I encouraged Phillip, when I support Anita, a piece of me lives on.”

She looked out the window. I put the car in gear and Ida hummed carols on our slow drive home.

We stopped in our driveway, delighting in the animated red, blue, green, and gold Christmas lights beaming in ever-changing patterns through her front window.

Then a shadow darted from my kitchen table. Maverick!

“Little scamp,” Ida said, and a smile stretched across her lips. “Or not so little.”

By the time we made it inside, Maverick had nestled in his kennel, acting the perfect puppy.

“Dad,” I called. “Dad?”

I might have heard a soft click and checked his bedroom door. Closed—now.

“Chicken,” I muttered to myself.

Ida cradled Maverick’s face in her hands and gave him one giant smooch. “Goodnight. Sleep tight,” she said. She yawned contagiously and waved on her way out.

I could only shake my head. I still had scores to record but instead I wondered what allowing Phillip McCall to take credit for her wonderful art had cost Anita Jones. She was hiding something.