Since it was Monday, Aichele waited until Mrs. Poll arrived to hang the painting. It was in the study, along with two glasses of red wine.
“You are to be congratulated, Aichele,” she said. “You have made Marcel Sieurac famous. Boucherot more than fulfilled my expectations.”
“Mine, too. Remind me to return his confession some day. After all, I did promise. But I am afraid his anxiety cannot compare with what Marcel Sieurac must have felt when he realized the significance of those three names.”
“That Sunday, when he read the Gazette?” Mrs. Poll said.
“Quite possibly. But whenever it was, he knew he had been swindled, just as you surmised. And there was nothing he could do about it. He had already accepted payment for the paintings. If he complained, M. St. Cloud and Boucherot could have simply locked them away forever — their investment was that small. And the only other choice was to watch others enrich themselves speculating on what he had given away so cheaply.”
“He could have painted more paintings.”
“No, and that must have been what drove him to such desperate ends. As you said, the bubble would burst, most likely sooner than later. The art buyers would not just ignore Marcel Sieurac, they would revile him.”
“So he created his own murder, knowing M. St. Cloud, and maybe even Boucherot, would be accused. But what a terrible price to pay for revenge.”
“But what exquisite revenge.”
Aichele held View of Pont Neuf up against a bare spot on the wall. “What do you think? How does our painting look here?” he asked.
“Our painting?”
“Of course. It is half yours.”
Aichele moved it to another spot.
“When I want to look at the Pont Neuf, I will walk down the street and look at it.”
“But you would not see this,” Aichele cautioned.
“Goodness, no,” Mrs. Poll agreed.
“You would be on the wrong side of the river. The View is from the Louvre.” Aichele held the painting, waiting for Mrs. Poll’s comment. Finally he looked back over his shoulder. The room was empty, but there was the swish of a feather duster coming from the hallway.
Find Me
by Jeffrey Bush
The phone rang. Kelly picked it up.
“Teen Lifeline,” she said. “Can I help you?”
Silence.
“Can I help you?” she said again.
More silence.
“I’m Kelly,” she said. “What’s your name?”
She waited.
There was a procedure for silent callers — you gave them as much time as they needed. Maybe they were deciding if they liked your voice. Maybe it had taken so much nerve for them to call that they didn’t know what to say.
“Is there something you want to talk about?”
There was another possibility.
Kelly didn’t like to think about it. But she had to.
Maybe they couldn’t say anything.
“Are you all right?”
Maybe they’d done something. Like cut themselves. Or taken an overdose.
“If you can’t say anything, can you make a noise?”
She listened.
“Can you tap the telephone?”
There was no sound.
Or was there?
Had she heard, in the background, the sound of something? Something ordinary — like a car — but not exactly a car — passing by?
Whatever it had been, the sound was gone now.
“I have to hang up,” she said. “But you can call back any time.”
She made her voice as friendly as she could.
Sometimes people called because they didn’t have any other friends. Because they were lonely.
And that was reason enough.
“Teen Lifeline is open until nine tonight. And there’s always the regular Lifeline. The regular Lifeline is open twenty-four hours a day, and they’ll be glad to take your call.”
She waited.
She let what she thought was enough time go by. Then, to make sure, she waited a little more.
Just as she was about to hang up, the line went dead.
Which was a relief. She didn’t like to hang up on a caller.
She liked to think that she’d done everything she could.
And she had, hadn’t she?
Of course she had.
She worried too much.
At the phone in the next cubicle, Marianne was murmuring, “Yes” and “Uh-uh.”
Marianne was on the regular Lifeline. Marianne was nice. She was about forty and slight, with a soft, comforting voice.
Kelly was glad to be on the same shift with Marianne. Sometimes, between calls, they had a chance to chat a little.
Kelly’s math book was lying open. She picked it up.
The Teen Lifeline didn’t get as many calls as the regular Lifeline. Usually she had time to do some homework.
But almost at once her phone rang.
“Teen Lifeline,” she said. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so.”
It was a male voice. A young male voice, sort of husky.
“What’s the trouble?” Kelly said.
“Well, I have this problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“A personal problem.”
Kelly had only been a Teen Lifeliner for a month and a half. But there were some calls that she had learned to be suspicious of.
This was one of them.
“Oh?”
“It’s hard to tell you about it.”
“Why is it hard to tell me about it?”
“Because you’re a girl.”
She was definitely suspicious.
“Would you rather talk to a boy?”
“Oh no.”
“There’s a boy on in two hours, at six.”
“I’d rather talk to you.”
He was breathing fast. And Kelly was afraid she knew why.
But maybe she was wrong.
“What would you like to talk about?”
“I’d like to talk about you.”
“We don’t talk about ourselves.”
“I just want to ask you one thing.”
“We’re here to talk about you.”
“What kind of underwear are you wearing?”
Damn.
Why did boys have to be like that?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We don’t accept that sort of call.”
“I just—”
She hung up firmly.
Marianne, still on the phone, had heard her. Marianne gave her a wry, sympathetic smile.
Kelly took a deep breath.
Boys were so stupid.
She picked up her math book.
“Are you okay?”
It was Marianne, looking at her. Marianne’s call was finished, too.
“Oh, sure.”
Kelly waved a hand. Although she’d been too upset by that call, to tell the truth, to think about her math.
More upset than she needed to be.
Why did she take everything so hard?
“Sex callers are a nuisance,” Marianne said.
“They told us about them in training class. But I didn’t realize there’d be so many of them.”
“I suppose they’re lonely, too.”
Kelly didn’t want to go on about it. She wanted to know more about Marianne.
They hadn’t had a real conversation yet, in spite of their month and a half of sitting side by side.
She had a feeling she would like Marianne.
“How long have you been a Lifeliner?” she asked.
“Let’s see.” Marianne pondered. “This is my fifth year.”
“Wow.”
Marianne looked amused. “I like it.”
“I guess you do.”
“I wouldn’t keep on if I didn’t.”
“I like it, too.” Kelly hesitated. “But I’m not sure I like it that much.”
“Most volunteers just stay a year.”
“Yes.”
“That’s what they promise.”