Chapter Eighteen
By the time I’m approaching the art gallery, on a hopping stretch of Lincoln Avenue near the Old Town School of Folk Music, the tension of the day is catching up with me. My shoulders are tight and my poor jaw has practically fused itself shut.
Elsie did find me between the two morgue pickups I had in the afternoon.
‘There is no record of a Beatrice Miller in our files.’
‘Oh,’ I said, scrunching my forehead. ‘Well let me double check the files before you say anything to Bill, just in case I can find it.’
Later, I coincided with Bill by the water cooler. This is it. If Elsie ratted me out, I might get fired right here right now, I thought. But all he said was,
‘Cloudy day,’ to which I responded, ‘Might rain.’
Looks like I still have a job – for now. At least until the coroner’s bill comes.
As I come to a stop in front of the bright gallery, heat lightning pulses in the sky and a humid, hot little breeze teases my hair. There’s an energy in the air filled with possibility – and danger. Am I about to find the clue that solves this case?
I stand there for a second, looking at the window display – some bright, geometric still lifes. A nude. A landscape with a barn.
‘Hey,’ a male voice calls out.
I peer down the dark sidewalk … oh my God. Liam? My heart zaps into a rapid beat as he approaches, hands in his pockets, the wind ruffling his hair.
My thoughts collide like cars in a freeway pileup. What the hell is happening? How did he know I’d be here? Is this a set-up? Is he in cahoots with the gallery owner?
He comes to a stop in front of me. He’s in slim charcoal-gray pants and a matching blazer. A white shirt, open a little at the collar. No tie. How dare he look this good – again??
‘What are you doing here?’ I say, my tone one hundred per cent accusatory.
He looks apologetic. ‘I was invited.’
‘I reached out to Simon earlier today. This is my appointment!’
‘And Simon reached out to me.’ He pauses. ‘You left last night without saying anything. I was worried.’
‘You were asleep.’
‘I called you multiple times today. And texted.’
‘I was working.’
He tilts his head. ‘My closet door was ajar. I never leave it ajar.’
I keep my expression dead serious. ‘Funny story, I thought it was the bathroom. Instead, I found myself stumbling into a piece of art painted by my roommate.’
Did I go there? Fuck yes, I went there. The adrenaline catches up with me just as Liam’s face goes still.
I make my tone steely. ‘I told you her name when we were kayaking. Why would you fail to mention you had her painting stashed in your closet?’
He licks his lips. ‘It didn’t seem like the right time to bring it up.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘I always wanted to tell you. I just didn’t want to freak you out.’
‘Well, congratulations, you freaked me out. Level with me, Liam Porter. Did you date her?’
‘No.’ He seems confused, like he doesn’t get why I’d ask that, but I’m not buying it.
I narrow my eyes. ‘You never went on a date with my roommate?’
He runs a hand through his hair, looking adorably befuddled, but I don’t trust anything about this innocent act. ‘I’ve never met her at all.’
I seethe in silence. So this is how it’s going to be. He’s just going to deny and deny, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
He takes a deep breath. ‘I know it seems like I was hiding something, Margot. I get it. But it was an innocent purchase. I told you I’m just getting my start in collecting. It’s an impactful piece.’
‘It doesn’t seem like you were hiding something, Liam, you were hiding something! How am I supposed to trust anything you say?’
‘Ask Zoe. She’ll tell you we’ve never met.’
Oh my God. Does he seriously not know she’s disappeared? Or is he pretending again?
‘What I said still stands,’ he continues, his voice softening.
‘I’d love to meet her soon. All your friends, in fact.
I want to see into your world. Margot—’ He takes one step closer, and if I went up on tiptoes, our lips could be touching, even though kissing him, for once, is the last thing I want to do right now. ‘I’m starting to … care about you.’
We stare at each other. His eyes bore into me, as if trying to drill into my heart to find my answer. I narrow my eyes and bore right back into him, trying to see through the act, to what’s underneath.
He cares about me. Do I believe it? Do I care about him?
I shake myself. No! We’re not going to fucking define the relationship in the middle of a murder investigation!
‘You don’t have to answer,’ Liam says with a crooked grin, as if sensing the turmoil inside me. ‘The last thing I want to do is freak you out again. Why don’t we go inside?’ He swings the door open and gestures. ‘After you.’
I pause for a second. Do I tell him Zoe is gone? Likely dead?
No. He’ll just feign surprise. Say all the right things, and I won’t be able to tell what’s real and what’s not. Forget it.
Entering the gallery is like stepping over the threshold into another world. Air conditioning washes over me, coating my skin in goosebumps. As soon as the door closes behind us, there’s a tremendous hush, like the whole space is holding its breath.
Then, brisk footsteps are coming from the back, and a man comes toward us at a clipped pace.
‘Hello, hello, you both made it, please come in!’ He’s short, balding, with black framed glasses, rolled-up shirtsleeves and a shiny pink paisley vest. ‘Let’s see – Mr Porter – and Miss McKee—’ He reaches out a hand to shake mine. ‘I’m Simon.’
‘Thanks for letting us in,’ I say.
‘Of course.’ He turns to Liam and claps him on the back. ‘Since you bought Miss Dawson’s first painting, we wanted to give you the first look at the second in the series.’
So it’s true; Simon did invite him tonight – as a potential buyer.
‘Let’s take a look,’ says Liam, and suddenly my anger is gone and I’m feeling chilled and a bit trembly. I know I’m not about to see Zoe herself, but seeing her art feels like the next closest thing.
Simon walks us to the back of the gallery, and I spot it right away, leaned up against a back wall, angled lights lending the piece an unearthly glow. Larger than life. Bold. Unmissable. Just like Zoe herself.
The three of us stop in front of it.
It’s a portrait, a woman, in blues and greens on a shadowy background. She’s naked, with a plastic sheen to her skin, and her head is surrounded – or pierced? – by black sun rays. She seems calm, languid even, but maybe trapped? Held in place? Are the rays tethers? Spears? Or a halo?
‘It’s called Skin,’ says Simon with a hushed reverence in his voice. ‘Oil on canvas. The name of the piece is on the back. Observe the way she layers paint and works with volume – the almost gritty texture of the black halo. Likely achieved by mixing sand into paint.’
‘And the first piece was called—’ I say.
‘Life,’ Liam and Simon say at the same time.
Simon pulls out his phone and extends a picture of the first painting to me. Last night, I saw it in the dark at a weird angle, behind a bunch of clothes, so this is the first time I’m getting a good look.
Like Skin, Life is a portrait of a woman.
Her face is downcast, her belly rounded – she’s obviously pregnant.
Inside her belly, the baby is a swirl of angry red paint slashes, its mouth open, like it’s consuming the woman from the inside.
But she’s not the only figure – there’s a second woman just behind her, just as prominent, but shadowy, her hand slung around the woman’s neck in a menacing embrace.
Behind the two of them, forming the background are shadowy figures, a whole multitude, arms waving and proportions distorted.
‘Can you text me this?’ I ask, and Simon nods.
‘I can’t believe it didn’t sell faster,’ Simon muses as I return his phone.
‘It was in the gallery for over a year, until Mr Porter purchased it. It’s beautiful, isn’t it, the way she explores ambiguity?
Is the shadow woman going to embrace the main figure, or throttle her?
Are the figures behind dancing or fighting?
And though the texture doesn’t come through in this picture, she uses the same technique of mixing sand with paint to bring a real dimensionality to the piece. ’
‘It’s stunning,’ says Liam. ‘So it’s a duo?’
Simon frowns. ‘Well, to be honest, it was supposed to be a series of four. When she brought in Life, I knew right away it needed to be part of a larger story, a cohesive collection, and I told her so. I asked if she’d be willing to create a series.
She agreed, so I contracted her for four pieces.
But after the very unfortunate, ehm, disappearance of the artist, I didn’t expect the series would ever be completed.
’ Simon gives Liam an apologetic look. ‘Hence the discounted price on the piece you purchased.’
Liam snaps to attention. ‘Disappearance of the artist?’ His eyes flick not to Simon, but to me.
‘I didn’t want to freak you out,’ I say in grim repetition of his line.
Liam’s jaw ripples. He looks like he’s going to speak, then seems to think better and returns his attention to the painting. I do as well.
Zoe was working on this series while she was still alive. Even though she didn’t let me see the work, she was certain this would be her breakout.
‘You have to tell me more!’ I remember cajoling one evening.
We were opening up a bottle of wine on one of the rare nights we were both at home.
Our lives had both gotten exceptionally busy.
We’d been so close the first few years we lived together, but things had changed.
We’d become ships crossing in the night.
We clinked our glasses, and she gave me a sly grin and said, ‘Let’s just say it’s both my riskiest and best work to date.’