The painting sessions dragged on. Alex was a slow and painstaking craftsman, and he refused to rush the portrait, no matter how much she protested his taking her away from her own work.
“After I finish this, I may do you with the ocelots,” he remarked one afternoon.”
Corin glared. “What do you mean, after you finish this? If you think I came to Boston just to waste my time sitting for you, you’re out of your mind.”
The artist was not even listening. He was frowning with fierce concentration at a corner of the background.
“Come here a second, will you, Corin? See what you think of the tonal relationships on the drapery.”
“Don’t tell me you’re finally going to allow me to have a look at your precious portrait!” Furious as she was, she could not resist the opportunity. Stiff-legged from sitting immobile for so long, she limped around behind the easel.
For a long moment, she could not speak. When she did, her voice was hushed, almost prayerful.
“Oh, Alex!”
The canvas was not only alive, but alight. Color blended with color into a vibrant, glowing whole of breathtaking loveliness.
Something caught in Corin’s throat. “Oh, Alex,” she whispered again.
“What’s the matter?”
“Matter? It’s—I can’t believe it. I don’t know what to say.
Tears prickled at her eyelids.
Alex’s long fingers gripped her shoulders. “Is it any good? Tell me. Please!”
“Alex Bodmin, I could swat you,” she choked. “You create a—a masterpiece, and then ask me if it’s any good. You know it’s good. It’s—oh, Alex, it’s so beautiful!” She fumbled for her handkerchief. “What’s the matter with you, anyway?” she demanded in a voice that shook. “Why can’t you believe in your own work?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s just that somewhere inside, I keep hearing my father yelling at me that I’ll never be anything but a bum. He used to say it so often, he got me believing it, I guess.”
Corin blew her nose fiercely. “Well, you can tell your father for me that he’s got rocks in his head. Anybody who can do a thing like this!” All the tedium of the long hours of posing disappeared. What did it matter if she never became a successful commercial artist? What if nobody even knew the name of Alex Bodmin’s model? She did not need those things now. She had become part of something great.
“But what if I can never do it again?” Alex groaned. “Maybe this is just a fluke. It’s only because I had you for a model.”
“You know it’s more than that,” she said, lost again in the shimmering lights and shades of the portrait. “But all I can say is, if I helped you create this, it’s the biggest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Do you mean that, Corin?”
“Yes,” she replied steadily, “I do.”
“Good. Then maybe we can get going this evening on the sketches for the ocelot picture.”
The girl nodded, her turquoise eyes still fixed on the painting. “Whatever you say, Alex.”
Unnoticed by the two, Mr. Hinkley came in and stood at the back of the studio, contemplating the painting. Finally he spoke.
“You’re out of my class, Alex.”
“What?” The lanky artist came down to earth with a thud.
“There’s nothing more you can learn in this school,” said the teacher. “From here on, you’re on your own.”
“Hink, you can’t do this to me!”
“I’m doing it, Alex. You’ve been marking time here for the last month. You were through last June, and you know it as well as I do. We’ve been letting you hang around because you didn’t seem ready to strike out for yourself. But this isn’t a student’s work. It’s high time you got out of here and set up your own studio.”
“Doing what? I’m no commercial artist.”
“I know it. You’re a painter, Lord help you, and you’ll probably have it rough for a while. But you’ll make it.”
Alex turned to Corin with an air of bewilderment that was almost pathetic. “What am I going to do? I haven’t any money for a studio. I can’t paint in my room.”
“Then you’d better get that Mister Oswega over here fast and sell him your painting,” said the girl practically.
“But it isn’t finished! The dark spot on the background—”
“Will take exactly five minutes to fix,” she snapped. “Do it now, and forget about it.”
“But I don’t want to sell the painting. I—heck, I want to keep it and look at it for a while.”
“So do I.” Corin felt she could never get enough of this exquisite thing. “But there’ll be other paintings, Alex.”
“I don’t even know how much I ought to ask for it.”
“We’ll dicker,” said Mr. Hinkley. “Let Oswega make you an offer. Then tell him the price is double whatever he says and let him beat you down a little. Oswega won’t cheat you too badly. He’s fairly honest, as collectors go. You won’t get what it’s worth, of course; but you can’t expect to on your first sale.”
“What if he doesn’t even buy it?”
“He will.” The teacher took another long look at the portrait. “He’d be crazy not to. Do a few more things as good as this, and the galleries will be fighting to represent you. Then they’ll handle the mechanics of selling and set prices for you. They’ll get all the traffic will bear, never fear.”
Alex still looked bewildered. “Does that sound all right to you?” he asked the girl.
He and Hink waited, eyeing her worriedly.
It seemed odd to have two grown men anxious for her approval; but they both clearly felt that her opinion was important.
Corin nodded. “I should think so.”
Alex relaxed a little, and Mr. Hinkley glanced at his watch.
“I’ve got to get going now. One of my tribe is having a birthday, and I promised to be home to dinner on time for once. I’ll call Oswega later this evening. Come by in the morning to clean out your locker, Alex, and I’ll tell you what’s been arranged about the viewing.”
“Really giving me the shove, aren’t you, Hink?” The young man tried to grin, but his attempt did not quite come off.
“Sink or swim.” His former teacher thumped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, son.” He went out, leaving the two young people alone with the painting.
Alex picked up a brush and went to work on the troublesome bit of background.
“I don’t know what to think,” he muttered. “I feel as if the ground had suddenly opened under my feet.”
“As if the world had opened up in front of you, you mean,” cried the girl. “Aren’t you even a little bit excited about having your own studio?”
“I guess so.” He grinned sheepishly. “Mostly, I’m plain scared.”
“But what is there to be scared of? You’re not afraid to starve a little, are you?”
“No, I can go hungry if I have to,” he exploded, “but why should I? Why isn’t an artist entitled to a decent living, the same as a guy who makes raincoats? That’s what my father wanted me to do. He’s a cutter in a raincoat factory, and he can’t think of a better way to spend your life than cutting raincoats. When I told him I was going to be an artist, he tried to wallop me. So I took off. I bummed around the country for three years doing odd jobs. Then I thumbed my way to Boston and started coming here to night school. After a while, they offered me a scholarship. It’s been pretty good the past couple of years. I worked summers for a sign painter and washed dishes during the winter in an all-night restaurant for money to live on. Sure, I hate to leave here. Why wouldn’t I? It’s the only place I’ve ever felt I belonged.”
“I know just how you feel,” said Corin. “My mother went straight up the wall when I told her I wasn’t going back to State Teachers College. But a person’s got to grow up, Alex. You can be a student all your life; but you can’t stay a schoolboy forever.”
“I know all that. But what if the guy doesn’t l
ike the painting? I’ve already spent a lot on art supplies this year, and I’ll need an easel and stuff if I’m going to set up my own place. I’ll be broke and back washing dishes in a week. Not to mention the rent money.”
“No, you won’t.”
“You’re darn right I won’t,” he shouted in a sudden burst of anger. “I’m all through scrounging around, living on hamburgers and corn flakes, never having time to do the things that matter to me because I’ve got to keep worrying about where the next buck’s coming from. From now on—”
“From now on, what?” Corin prodded.
“Oh, forget it. I was just blowing off. Come on, let’s clean up and get out of here since I’m not wanted any more.”
“You sure enjoy feeling sorry for yourself, don’t you?”
“If I don’t, who will?”
He dumped his brushes in the sink and scrubbed at them ferociously. By the time he had worked the paint out of the bristles, he was in a somewhat better humor.
“I didn’t know I could be such a whiner. Never had anybody to whine to before, I guess. It hasn’t been all that bad, actually. I don’t think I’ve made quite such a mess of my life as some people. Look at Jack Banks, for instance. Those rich kids make me sick. They get everything handed to them on a silver platter, and then they don’t know what to do with it.”
He put his brushes and tubes of paint away with elaborate care in a battered carrying case, took one last, long look at the painting, and slouched toward the door. “Come on, kid. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee to celebrate. It’s all I can afford.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” said the girl. “If you don’t mind braving the Fat Lady’s ghost, why don’t you come back to the house with me and have a plate of meatballs? You’ll feel better with a decent meal inside you for a change.”
“I’m not scared of dear old Rosie, dead or alive. But I can’t be taking your food.”
“Why not, for the cat’s sake? You’ve been taking my time for the past three weeks, and that’s a lot more valuable.”
“Okay, then. If you really want me. Can I at least buy a couple of pastries or something for dessert?”
“Wait till you sell your painting, and then you can take me on a real blast.”
“That’s a deal. I just wish I were as sure as you are that What’s-his-name will go for it.”
“He will.” The girl smiled. “Come on, let’s get going. I’m starved.”
Chapter 10
Alex pushed back his twice-emptied plate and looked at Corin with something close to reverence. “Where did you learn to cook like that?”
“My mother taught me. She used to cook for a rich family before she was married.”
“No kidding? I thought you were from a rich family yourself when I first met you.”
“You couldn’t have been more wrong,” laughed the girl. “My father was the gardener who married the cook. He’s got a little landscape gardening business of his own, now. He makes out all right; but it’s terribly hard work. My brothers help him.”
“Is that right? Hey, that’s great!”
“What’s so great about it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It makes you less—untouchable.” Alex was embarrassed. “I mean, you’ve got this sort of ‘Out of the way, you peasants’ air about you. It scares me.”
Corin flushed. “I guess I’ve had some pretty un-bright ideas about myself. I was going to be the world’s greatest designer.”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“No. I’m no better than half the other kids in the freshman class and not as good as the other half. I can do clever little things with my hands, and that’s about all.”
“So what? That’s something, isn’t it? You can be the world’s cleverest maker of doodads. Don’t you get a lot of satisfaction out of cooking a great meal like this, or taking a hunk of cloth and turning it into one of those dresses Jack Banks thinks you get from Paris?”
“Does he really?”
“Sure. He was giving me this big line one day about how you have all your things designed exclusively for you.”
“I hope you didn’t tell him who’s the designer! He’s such a nut about clothes, I couldn’t help ribbing him a little. He doesn’t think anything is any good unless it cost a lot.”
“There are lots of guys like him around.”
“Girls, too; but I’m glad I’m not one of them,” said Corin with a trace of her old smugness. “Can I give you some genuine Norsk coffee? There’s nothing but fruit and cheese for dessert. I was going to make a cake last night; but I, uh, got sidetracked.”
“This is perfect for me. Thanks, I like it black.”
Alex sipped at strong, clear coffee with obvious relish. “Funny, even when I used to come down here before, I never realized what a nice room this is.”
“I love it,” Corin replied. “I must say I feel rather grateful to Miss Garside’s ghost for keeping the others away and leaving it all to me.”
“I don’t suppose,” her guest studied his empty cup thoughtfully, “that you’ve ever had any, well, experiences down here?”
“What kind of experiences?”
“Oh, you know,” he laughed, turning a little red, “mysterious white figures vanishing down the sink drain.”
“If I did, I’d have vanished, myself,” Corin assured him. “No, I haven’t, and I hope I never will. I’ve had a creepy feeling once or twice that somebody was watching me; but I expect that was just what the Madame calls the vapors. It’s so quiet when you’re down here alone, and the lighting isn’t all that great, especially in that corner over by the sink.”
“I know. Too bad it isn’t better,” mused the artist. “I could do a—say, Corin, would you mind if I just did a fast sketch of you standing there by the stove? I’ve got an idea.”
Without waiting for an answer, he dashed off to get his sketching block. Corin smiled and began to clear the table. Her meatball therapy certainly seemed to have worked on Alex. She had enjoyed the meal, too. It was fun to get a dinner for somebody who appreciated good home cooking. Lots more fun than dining out at some overrated restaurant.
“I might as well face it. I’m just a cook’s daughter at heart,” she murmured, running hot water over the pink Staffordshire plates that had once been the Fat Lady’s. Maybe being a cook’s daughter was not such a bad thing, after all.
Alex burst through the door just as she was setting the last cup in the drainer. “All set?”
“Yes, as soon as I take my apron off.”
“No, leave it on. I like it. Is that another Johansen original?”
“No, I copied it from one my mother brought from Norway. It’s just a piece of dishtoweling, really.”
He smiled, but did not answer. He was already busy with a felt-tipped pen, blocking in the girl’s tall figure with light, sure strokes. “You ought to have something in your hand,” he frowned. “How about that whatsit up there?”
He pointed with the end of his pen at an old-fashioned wire whisk that hung on the wall high above the sink. “Shall I get it for you?”
“I think I can reach it.” Corin stood on tiptoe, made a snatch at the handle, and lost her balance. The whisk came down, and with it a strip of the molding on which it had hung.
Alex caught her as she fell. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, but look what I did.” Ruefully, she held up the broken length of molding.
“That’s nothing. I can tack it up again in a—hey, what’s this?”
The torn-off molding had exposed a narrow cavity in the wall. Within it lay something bright and glittering.
“Must be some more of Madame Despau-Davy’s jewelry,” said the girl. “I keep finding it in the darnedest places.”
Alex prodded at the shining thing with the tines of a long-handled toasting fork. At last, he managed to draw it out of its hiding place.
“Holy cow,” he gasped. “Will you look at that?”
Dangling from the top of the fork was a sl
ender diamond bracelet.
“That’s nothing,” said Corin. “You ought to see the ruby necklace I fished out of the cupboard last night.”
“I’ll be dipped.” Alex was still holding the necklace out in front of him on the fork. “This thing must be worth a young fortune.”
“Put it back, quick,” urged the girl. “It gives me the jitters to see it lying around loose like this. I wish she’d put her jewelry in the bank or something.”
“What makes you think they’re hers?”
“Why, whose else could they be?”
“I don’t know,” said the young man slowly, “but they sure don’t belong to Madame Despau-Davy.”
“Why shouldn’t they? She was a famous circus star, wasn’t she?”
“Don’t let her kid you. Hanning Brothers was a two-bit tent show. She worked for peanuts. I know what those guys pay. I was with one myself for a while.”
“Perhaps her husband bought them for her.”
“Old Dickie Davy? He was a sword swallower with the same outfit. He never bought her a razor blade.”
“Then maybe she had a …” Corin hesitated.
“A boy friend? Don’t you believe it. She’s not the type. Not unless he was a panther or something. Anyway, this is a modern design. Look for yourself. I’ll bet this bracelet is brand new.”
“I see what you mean. It couldn’t possibly be more than a year old. It looks as though it’s never been worn.” Corin turned the glittering strand over in her long, slim fingers. “You don’t suppose Miss Garside could have bought the jewels and hidden them away just before she died?”
“Not a chance. If Rosie ever had any spare cash, she’d have endowed a home for stray mice or something. She used to live on crackers and milk for a week at a time so that she could donate her grocery money to the Animal Rescue League. And, believe me, for somebody who liked to eat as well as she did, that was a real sacrifice.”
“But then, whose jewelry can it be?”
“Good question. I think we’d better put this thing back and forget we ever saw it.”
The Fat Lady's Ghost Page 6
