And so I did. I sat at the bar, ordered a Coors Light from Mr. Pettibone, and asked daughter Priscilla to bring me a double cheeseburger with home fries and a side order of coleslaw. She spread this harvest before me and shook her head wonderingly.
"On a diet, Archy?" she inquired.
"None of your sass," I said. "I have been engaged in debilitating physical labor and require nourishment."
She shrugged. "They're your arteries," she said.
As I made my way through all that yummy cholesterol I pondered the murder of Silas Hawkin and wondered if one of his clients with whom he had been cozy had slid that palette knife into his gullet. I could imagine several motives: jealousy, revenge, fury at being jilted for another woman.
If it was my case, and it wasn't, I would concentrate on the missing painting. Find "Untitled," I thought, and you'd probably find the killer. I had enough faith in Sgt. Al Rogoff's expertise to reckon he was on the same track.
But why would the murderer risk making off with the painting? It couldn't be sold, at least not locally, and if it was unfinished, as it apparently was, it would be of little value anywhere. The only logical conclusion was that the importance of "Untitled" lay in its subject matter. The killer didn't want it to be seen by anyone.
But if that was true, why wasn't the painting destroyed on the spot? After slaying the artist it would have taken the assassin only a few minutes to slash "Untitled" to ribbons, or even douse it with one of the inflammables in the studio and set it afire. But instead, "Untitled" was carried away.
Which led me to reflect on the size of the painting. The portrait of Theo Johnson, I estimated, was approximately 3? ft. tall by 2? wide. If "Untitled" had the same dimensions it was hardly something one could tuck under one's arm and then saunter away, particularly if the painting was still wet. A puzzlement.
I knew that art supply stores carried blank canvases already framed. But I also knew that most fine artists preferred to stretch their own canvas, buying the quality desired in bolts and cutting off the piece required for a planned endeavor. It would then be tacked to a wooden frame.
Still, it might be worthwhile to check the store where Silas bought his supplies. It was just barely possible he had recently purchased a stretched canvas that was to become "Untitled." And so, after I had consumed that cornucopia of calories in toto, I inserted myself behind the wheel of the Miata with some difficulty and set out for the Hawkin residence.
As I said, it was not my case, but it was of interest to me because of the peripheral involvement of Theo and Hector Johnson.
Also, I had nothing better to do on that sultry afternoon.
It had been my intention to ask the housekeeper for the information I sought, but when I rang the chimes at the main house the door was opened by Mrs. Louise Hawkin.
"Oh," I said, somewhat startled. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawkin. May I speak to Mrs. Folsby for a moment?"
"She is no longer with us," she said in a tone that didn't invite further inquiries.
But I persisted. "Sorry to hear it," I said. "Could you tell me where I might be able to contact her?"
"No," she said shortly. Then: "What did you want to talk to her about?"
"I just wanted to ask if your late husband used prepared canvases or if he stretched his own."
She stared at me. "Why on earth would you want to know that?"
I have a small talent for improv. "A young friend of mine is a wannabe artist," I told her. "He is a great admirer of Mr. Hawkin's technique and requested I ask."
She bought it. "My husband stretched his own canvas," she said. "A very good grade of linen. Good day, Mr. McNally."
And she shut the door. What I should have said was, "No more interest in a divorce lawyer, Mrs. Hawkin?" But I knew the answer to that.
I glanced toward the studio building. It seemed to be unguarded, and the crime scene tape drooped in the heat. I wandered over and tried the scarred oak and etched glass door, but it was locked. I turned away, then heard a "Psst!" that whirled me back. Marcia Hawkin was standing in the opened doorway, beckoning to me.
She drew me inside, then locked the door after us.
"What did she tell you?" she said fiercely.
Bewilderment time. "Who?" I asked.
"Her," she said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the main house. "Did she say anything about me?"
"Not a word," I assured her. "We had a very brief conversation about your father's work."
She clutched my arm and pulled me into the sitting area on the ground level. She leaned close and almost whispered. "She's a dreadful woman. Dreadful! Don't believe anything she says. Do you want a drink?"
"I think I better," I said, and she went into the kitchenette. I watched with horror as she poured me a tumbler of warm vodka.
"Miss Hawkin," I said, "if I drink that I'll be non compos mentis. Please let me do it."
I moved to the sink and mixed myself a mild vodka and water with plenty of ice. Meanwhile Marcia had thrown herself on the couch and lay sprawled, biting furiously at a fingernail. An Ophelia, I decided.
It would be difficult to describe her costume in detail without sounding indecent. I shall merely say that she wore an oversized white singlet, soiled and possibly belonging to her dead father, and denim shorts chopped off so radically that they hardly constituted a loincloth. But her lanky semi-nakedness made her seem more helpless than seductive. She was long and loose-jointed; a puppeteer had cut her strings.
"My stepmother is a bitch," she declared. "You know what that means, don't you?"
"I've heard the word," I acknowledged.
"What am I going to do?" she cried despairingly. "What am I going to do?"
Never let it be said that A. McNally failed to respond to a damsel in distress. But when the damsel in question appears to be a certifiable loony-well, it does give one pause, does it not?
"What seems to be the problem, Miss Hawkin?" I asked, speaking as slowly and softly as possible.
My soothing manner had the desired effect. She suddenly began talking rationally and with some good sense.
"Money," she said. "Isn't that always the problem?"
"Not always," I said, "but frequently. Surely your father left you well-provided for."
"I have a trust fund," she admitted, "but I can't touch it until I turn twenty-one."
That was a shocker. I had guessed her to be in the mid-twenties. "How old are you, Miss Hawkin?" I asked gently.
"Nineteen," she said. "I look older, don't I?"
"Not at all," I said gallantly.
"I know I do," she said defiantly. "But you don't know what my life has been like. When daddy was alive, money made no difference. He was very generous. Anything I wanted. But now I'm totally dependent on her. My food, the house, spending money-everything. It just kills me."
"Surely you have relatives or friends who'd be willing to help out."
She shook her head. "No one. I'm on my own, and I'm frightened, I admit it."
"Don't be frightened," I counseled her, "because then you won't be able to think clearly. You must keep your nerve and review your options calmly and logically as if you were called upon to advise someone else."
She looked at me queerly. "Yes," she said, "you're right. If I have the courage to act I can solve my own problems, can't I?"
"Of course. Courage and energy: That's what it takes."
She laughed. I didn't like that laugh. It came perilously close to being a hysterical giggle.
"Thank you, Archy," she said. "I may call you Archy, mayn't I?"
"I'd be delighted."
"And you must call me Squirrel," she said. "That's what daddy always called me."
"What an unusual nickname," I said, smiling.
"You think so?" she challenged, and abruptly she was back in her manic mood again. "I see nothing unusual about it. You just don't understand. No one can ever understand. I think you better go now."
My first impression had been correct: definitely an Ophelia.