“I'm sure I don't know.”
“She did study with you, didn't she? Monday and Friday afternoons, starting in May?”
“Yes, she studied with me.”
“Every week?”
“Every week. Faithfully.”
“But not watercolors.”
“She wanted to branch out into other forms of expression. I encouraged her to concentrate on perfecting what she did best, to explore the subtleties of Abstract Expressionism.”
“But she didn't paint any more abstracts,” Cecca said. “You said those two on the wall there were her last works.”
“Her last finished works. She experimented with different canvases, different approaches. They didn't please either of us.”
“Do you still have them?”
“No. I destroyed them after her death.”
“Because they weren't salable?”
“Because they were unfinished and inferior.” Louise's eyes were colder now, darker. Glare ice, black ice. “Is there any particular type of painting your brother prefers? Abstracts, still-lifes, landscapes, seascapes?”
“Something representational,” Cecca said, to prolong the conversation. “Watercolors, preferably.”
“I have a good modern by a Bodega artist, Janet Rice. Reasonably priced. Over here …”
Cecca followed her to another wall. The watercolor was a vineyard scene, pale and blurry at the edges. Vastly overpriced at $150. She pretended to study it.
“I've had it for a while,” Louise said. “I don't think Ms. Rice would mind if I let you have it for one twenty-five.”
“Let me think about it. Do you have any others?”
“Watercolors? No, not right now.”
Cecca straightened. “You know, it's odd, really.”
“What is?”
“That Katy told me she'd done a watercolor, when she hadn't. Why do you suppose she'd tell a fib like that?”
“I've already told you, I don't know.”
“You did say she studied with you every week for the three months before she died? Twice a week, never missed a day?”
“Just what are you getting at, Francesca?”
“I think Katy was having an affair,” Cecca said.
She was looking for a reaction, and she got one, small but unmistakable: involuntary twitch in one cheek, slight sideshift in Louise's cold gaze before it steadied again. The older woman said flatly, “What makes you think that?”
“I was Katy's closest friend. There were signs.”
“Did she tell you she was having an affair?”
“No, she didn't. Did she confide in you, by any chance?”
“Hardly. Ours was a pupil-teacher relationship.”
“So you wouldn't have lied for her.”
“Lied?”
“About her spending Monday and Friday afternoons with you.”
“Are you accusing me of lying?”
“I'm just wondering.”
“Well, you can stop wondering. What business is it of yours, anyway, if Katy had a lover?”
“Her husband is my friend, too, and I don't want to see him hurt. If I know the truth, I can talk to the man she was seeing, make sure he keeps quiet about it.”
“You're the one who'll hurt Dix Mallory if you keep prying. Why don't you just mind your own business? Katy's gone, it doesn't matter any longer what she was or was not doing. Let her rest in peace. Let sleeping dogs lie.”
Four clichés in a row, Cecca thought. Very good, Louise. Very earnest and sincere. So why don't I believe you? Why do I think you're covering up?
“Are you interested in the Rice for your brother?” Louise asked. “Or was that just an excuse to come in and pump me about Katy?”
“I don't like the Rice. In fact, I don't like much of anything you're trying to sell.”
The words sounded lame and defensive to Cecca even as she spoke them. But when Louise, purse-mouthed, turned her back and walked away without responding, she had no choice but to let them stand as an exit line.
On her way downstairs she worried that she'd mishandled the situation by making an enemy of the woman. Any other approach, though, would have netted her even less information. Katy had said she was studying watercolors with Louise as recently as a week or so before the accident; that made it definite Louise had lied. Why? Keeping a promise she'd made to Katy? Or did it have something to do with those last two marked-up abstracts, with the person who'd bought them?
One other thing Cecca was certain of: Louise Kanvitz not only knew about the affair, she knew the identity of Katy's lover.
When she got back to Better Lands she checked her voice-mail first thing. Still no word from the Agbergs. The only message was from Elliot Messner in Brookside Park, returning her call of this morning. She tapped out his number.
“Elliot, it's Francesca Bellini.”
“Francesca, hello. Don't tell me you've found a buyer for this pile of mine?”
“I wish I had. No, that's not why I called earlier.”
“Oh? Change your mind about my invitation to dinner?”
“Not that either, I'm afraid.”
He sighed elaborately. “If you have any more bad news,” he said, “don't tell me. I've been in a wrist-slitting mood all day.”
“It may be good news, actually. I have a new listing that you might be interested in. A small farm in Hamlin Valley—eighteen acres, house, barn, chicken coop and run. The buildings need repair work, quite a bit in the case of the barn, but I think they're all structurally sound. And you won't find a more attractive setting anywhere in the area.”
“What's the asking price?”
“Three twenty-five.”
“Firm?”
“It is now, but it's a brand-new listing.”
“So you think it might be on the market for a while?”
“There's no predicting that. This is a depressed market, though.”
“Don't I know it,” Elliot said. “Realistically I won't get more than two fifty for this place, right?”
“Honest answer? Probably not.”
“I don't want to have to finance much on whatever I buy—if anything at all. Even if this Hamlin Valley place is what I'm looking for and I could get it for under three hundred … I don't know. Maybe it's too soon.”
“If you think so,” Cecca said. “On the other hand, it couldn't hurt to take a look at it. See if it is the sort of property you're looking for and what you can expect within your price range.”
“That makes sense. All right, when can I have a squint?”
“Anytime you like.”
“Not today. And I'm tied up on university business in the morning. … How about three tomorrow afternoon?”
“Fine. I'll swing by and pick you up.”
“I look forward to it,” he said, and paused and then said, “Have you ever had the Thirty-five-cent Peasant Pot Roast?”
“The … what?”
“Thirty-five-cent Peasant Pot Roast. Otherwise known as the Best Thirty-five-cent Meal in North Beach.”
“Elliot, I don't know what you—”
“There used to be a restaurant in San Francisco, in the gaslight era, called Brenti's La Gianduja. End of Stockton Street at Washington Square in North Beach. One of the city's best turn-of-the-century eateries. Their customers' favorite entree was the Peasant Pot Roast.”
Uh-huh, she thought, now I get it. “And you happen to have the recipe.”
“I not only have it, I make it splendidly, if I do say so myself. I also have some homemade grappa to go with it. Brenti's always served their pot roast with grappa, you see.”
Cecca was silent.
“Francesca? What do you say? The Best Thirty-five-cent Meal in North Beach, tomorrow night after we look at the Hamlin Valley farm?”
“I'm busy tomorrow night,” she lied.