"But then he was twenty minutes late getting back, and when I made him work the extra twenty, he got mad." She finished her beer and got up. "I'm heading for the shower; I smell like a locker room."
Wilma hadn't mentioned the drawings. She wanted to wait for Clyde-and wait until Charlie had cleaned up and didn't feel so hot and irritable. Charlie could be testy-if she was in a bad mood, anything you said could be taken wrong. Patiently, sipping her beer, she sat reading the rest of the lead article and a second, longer story.
Ms. Aronson was unable to produce witnesses to her whereabouts the early morning of Ms. Jeannot's death. She claimed that she was alone in her Molena Point condominium. Neighbors testified that lights were on that morning in her living room and bedroom, but no witness saw her white Dodge van parked on the street. Ms. Aronson told the court she had parked on a side street, that there had been no empty parking places in front of her building.
She testified that she did not leave her apartment until nearly 7 A.M., when police phoned to notify her that Janet's studio had burned and that Janet had died in the fire. She said she dressed and drove directly to Ms. Jeannot's studio. Under questioning, Ms. Aronson admitted that she had a set of keys for Jeannot's studio and apartment. She claimed that Jeannot had given them to her so she could pick up and deliver work for exhibitions.
The second witness was Jeannot's sister, Beverly Jeannot, who also admitted to having a set of keys. Police said that onthe day Janet was murdered they were not able to reach Ms. Jeannot at her home in Seattle until noon, though they made several attempts by phone to notify her of her sister's death. Ms. Jeannot claimed she had not been feeling well, and that she had unplugged her phone the night before. She said she slept until 11:45 the morning of the fire, that once she was notified she booked the next flight to San Francisco, with a commuter connection to Molena Point. She arrived in the village at three that afternoon.
Scheduled to testify later in the week is San Francisco art agent and former critic Kendrick Mahl, a name of national stature. Mahl is Janet Jeannot's ex-husband and is also the representing art agent for the accused. A partial transcript of today's court proceedings follows.
Wilma was scanning the transcript when Clyde knocked at the back door and pushed on in. He was well scrubbed, his dark hair neatly combed. He smelled faintly of Royal Lime, a nonsweet scent from Bermuda that Wilma liked, though she detested the heavy and too-sweet scents that most men applied. He was wearing a new shirt. The store creases spoiled only slightly the fresh look of the red madras plaid. He got a beer from the refrigerator and pulled out a chair, scowling at the headlines. "Don't they have anything else to write about?"
"Good color on you. Don't sit down. Go in the dining room."
"What? Are we eating formal?"
"Just go."
He gave her a puzzled look and swung away into the dining room, carrying his beer.
He was silent for a long time, she could hear the soft scuff of his loafers as he moved about the room, as if he were viewing the work from different angles and from a distance. When he returned to the kitchen he was grinning. "I thought, from the way you talked and from what Charlie said, that her work was really bad, that art school was a waste of time."
"It was a bust," Charlie said, coming in. She was dressed in a pale blue T-shirt with SAVE THE MALES stenciled across the front, and clean, faded jeans and sandals. She had blow-dried her sweaty hair and it blazed around her face as wild as the vanished sunset. "I should have gone to business school. Or maybe engineering, I've always been good at math. I'm sorry I didn't do that, maybe civil engineering. It was a big waste of time, that four years in art school. Big waste of my folks' money."
Clyde shook his head. "Those drawings are strong. They're damned good."
Charlie shrugged. "I enjoy doing animals, but it's nothing that will make me a living."
Clyde raised an eyebrow. "Don't put yourself down. Who told you that?"
"The fine arts department. My drawings-any animal drawings-are way too commercial, they have no real meaning. Just a waste of time."
"But you took commercial art, too," Clyde said. "You got a BS in both. So what did the commercial people say?"
Charlie gave him a twisted, humorless smile. "That there is no market for animal sketches, that this is not commercial art. That you have to use the computer, have to understand how to sell, have sales knowledge and a strong sense of layout. Have to be a real professional, understand the real world of advertising, bring yourself up into the electronic age. That this-drawing animals-is hobby work"
"Rubbish," Clyde said.
"Trouble is, I don't give a damn about commercial work." She got another beer from the refrigerator and picked up the silver flatware that Wilma had dropped in the center of the table. As she folded the paper napkins neatly in half, she gave Clyde a long look. "They know what they're talking about. I can draw for my own pleasure, but as for making a living, right now my best bet is CHARLIE'S FIX-IT, CLEAN-IT. And I like that just fine." She tossed back her hair and grinned. "I'm my own boss, no one telling me what to do." Reaching across the table, she arranged the silver at their three places and set the napkins around. At Clyde's angry look, she laughed. "My illustration instructor said I can draw kitties as a hobby."
"Who the hell do they think they are?"
"They," Wilma said, "are our rarefied and venerable art critics, those specially anointed among us with the intelligence to understand true art."
Clyde made a rude noise.
Wilma studied Charlie. "I'll admit I didn't like your landscapes. But these-these are strong. More than strong, they're knowledgeable, very sure. Do you have more?"
"Some horses," Charlie said. "Lots of cats, all my friends in San Francisco had cats. A dog or two."
"Did you bring them with you?"
"They're in the storage locker with my cleaning stuff and tools."
"Will you bring them home?" Wilma said patiently. "I'd like to see them all."
Charlie shrugged and nodded. "The sketches of Dulcie are yours, if you want them."
"You bet I want them. Dulcie will be… is immortalized," Wilma stumbled. She caught Clyde's eye, and felt her face heating. "I'll take them down right away, to be framed." She rose and began to fuss at the sink, her back to Charlie, and hastily began final preparations for dinner, again checking the roast, making sure the noodles were still warm.
She was going to have to be more careful what she said to Charlie, and in front of Charlie.
And, she'd have to get those drawings out of the house before Dulcie saw them. The little cat could be as careless as she. If Dulcie came on those drawings unprepared, she would be so pleased she'd very likely forget herself, let out a cry of astonishment and delight that, if Charlie heard her, would be difficult to explain.
12
It was poker night at the Blankenships'. Frances served an early supper of canned spaghetti and a limp salad, then hustled Mama off to bed. Returning to the kitchen, she made a stack of baloney and salami sandwiches, wiped the counters, and dutifully removed from the round kitchen table its collection of animal-shaped salt and pepper shakers, pig-shaped sugar bowl, the cream pitcher made in the image of a cow, and the potted fern. Varnie slapped a new unopened deck of cards and a rack of poker chips on the table, and checked the refrigerator to assess once again his stock of cold beer. Dulcie watched the preparations from a dark little space between the end of the stove and the kitchen wall.