by D. L. EVANS
“... has been around forever but last year the sisters bought out their uncle and took over.” Lauren was saying. “Alison is the older one, you must have heard me mention her name before, not that you actually ever listen, anyway, and she runs the gallery. I’ve known her for years... not really well... just casually.”
‘Who cares?’ I was thinking. As she blathered on I noticed a different tone in her voice. Why was she sounding so uncertain? Was this woman a friend or not? Before I could comment on her hesitancy, she continued quickly.
“She... Alison Stanford, has been an invaluable connection to the art community. I’ve interviewed her on my show, along with some of the artists she supports through her patronage. She’s quite pleasant in a reserved sort of way; drop dead gorgeous... in case you're interested... and big on the charity circuit. The two of them are wildly successful, considering that they’re new to the major leagues. It seems the younger one, Annie, who I’ve just recently met, is in restoration and has an eye for talent that’s proving to be phenomenal. She can also smell a fake from twenty paces but they keep that information private.”
“So what?” I continued typing while trying to come up with an extenuating excuse to get out of the forgotten commitment. “Sounds like the perfect set-up; one sister finds the up-and-coming artist and the other one introduces the wares to the public. Talent and marketing savvy equals two rich women. So...? What’s your interest? And more importantly, why are you telling me this? I know squat about art.”
“Well", she hesitated "I wasn’t going to tell you until after you’d met them but, since you’re being such a jerk,” a deep sigh, “the younger sister, Annie, thinks someone is trying to kill her.” She paused and waited for my concerned reaction. My silence disappointed her.
I knew it was useless to explain but I plunged in. “Lauren... listen. I mean really listen. My cop days are long gone... six years I’ve been out of it. The book about the Stalking Murders was fiction. You didn’t commit me to anything, did you?”
“The research wasn’t fiction,” she snapped, her words delivered through dry ice. “You’re an expert! Even your cop friends acknowledge that no one knows these kind of sickos like you.”
My impulse was to correct her but the intensity in her eyes told me not to bother.
“She thinks whoever is stalking her has killed before! Are you saying that you won’t help? You won’t even talk to her?”
“A silly question I know," I said patiently, "but has she been to the police?”
“Of course!" she snapped, throwing her hands dramatically into the air while staring upwards as if looking for celestial help. My sister was meant for the stage. "You know yourself that nothing can be done at least, not until he does something to her.” She took another audible breath to indicate that she was out of patience. “Don't just sit there, get your clothes off and hit the shower." (Pause for a dramatic re-cap.) "Somebody is trying to kill her and nothing’s happening! God, do cops always have to have a dead body before they can act?”
“I’m not a cop now. Are you listening? I’m a writer... you know... armed with a computer," I said, as if logic and common sense made any difference. “What evidence is there?” I asked over my shoulder as she followed me through the untidy bedroom, sniffing disdainfully at the obvious signs of bachelor bliss and into the bathroom. No answer I noticed and no smart remark either. “Can I assume from your eloquent silence that there is no evidence whatsoever?” I ventured. She changed the subject and gave a brief history of the Gallery before the sisters took over. I removed my comfortable sweatshirt, took note that she wasn't about to leave and gently pushed her out of the bathroom leaving the door partially open. I finished undressing, reached in and turned on the shower, waiting for it to run hot as she kept on talking from the other side of the door.
Her voice changed in volume indicating a change in direction. “I don’t want you to over-react or anything, but there IS something else you should know.”
I heard a distant drum pound out a warning as I stepped into the shower. ‘Now we’re getting to it’, I thought.
“Annie...is... um, well... gifted,” she stated in a conciliatory tone, completely out of character for her. The statement seemed to float in through the partially closed door and bounce around in the shower several times before I digested it.
“Oh shit.” I stared at the tiled ceiling; the billowing steam reflected my rising anger. “You don’t mean she’s psychic do you?”
Silence.
“Let me guess,” I said with false sincerity. “She feels... is that right Lauren... she feels that someone is watching her and is planning bad things... nasty, male things? Am I right?” I turned off the water. “Probably looks like the back end of a bus to boot, I’ll bet, huh Lauren?” No bloody evidence is there? “That’s why the cops aren’t doing anything. Right? She’s dreaming these threats?” I finished drying, wrapped the towel around my middle and got ready to shave.
“You’re so bloody facetious," stated the disembodied voice. "Will you at least talk to her?” Before I could refuse she continued, “Her sister Alice believes her… I mean really believes her, and is frightened. I know you don’t believe in this sort of thing but...”
“Jesus, Lauren… are you kidding?” I was practically spitting at the mirror with anger. “Don’t you remember the two whackos that worked with us on those children’s murders? (No pause for a reply.) Well I fucking remember it like it was yesterday! They made a laughing stock out of us in the press. The wild goose chases we went on; the sensational bullshit they put us through.... For what? Publicity! In the end it was tough police slogging that caught that creep. And those camera hungry bastards didn’t do a damn thing except waste our valuable time. They should have been charged with malicious mischief at the very least. I wish...” Looking in the mirror I noticed blood oozed out of a tiny cut and ribboned it’s way down my chin. It had been years since I’d cut myself shaving. I saw her watching me through the slightly opened door so I angled the mirror to show her the painful result of her bullying but she barely noticed.
“I know, I know,” she conceded. “Don’t blow up. It’s not like that. Can’t you give me the benefit of the doubt?” She gave me a condescending expression that in front of a camera would replace six lines of dialogue. ”This is different. Annie and Alice Stanford are different. Look, I didn’t commit you to anything, just listen to her. Can you do that...?” I declined to reply. Two could play the ‘silent’ game. Her volume went up a notch. “Will you do this one goddamn favour for your own sister? It’s not like I ask you all the time.” Now the calm, persuasive tone. “Let me tell you why you’re going to do this for me…" God this ought to be good, I thought. “Mom called from Marathon…” she started, knowing that I would have to listen when she’s already called in the big guns… “and is worried about you," she continued. "I promised her to get you away from your computer for a while, and believe me you don’t want her to come up from the Keys for a visit and take over. Next, your agent has been bugging me because your second masterpiece is not forthcoming and wants to know why you’re avoiding him, (breath) and last but not least, you’re drinking too much, you need something to do - something that will kick start your brain. I’ve been making excuses for you for too long and you owe me large. And in case you’ve forgotten, you’ve already agreed and I’ve told Alison Stanford you would be there. So you’re just going to bloody well take me. She’s looking forward to meeting my famous and handsome... when he’s cleaned up... brother. She opened the door fully, ripped off my towel and gave me one of her hard stares in the mirror, ignoring my bare ass.
“Look at you!” she sighed audibly. “One damn evening out of your life Adam, a few minutes... Damn it!... Put the tux on... and move it! We’re already late. I’ll wait in the car.”
I decided to be a Buddhist about it and let it go. I got dressed
Chapter Three
ADAM STONE:
It is arguable that Toronto ev
er actually experiences spring as a season. We suffer an endless winter into late April, then a schizophrenic few weeks of weather that consists of rain, ice or snow storms, punctuated with warm teasing bouts of sunshine. And just when we we’re totally confused and frustrated that summer will never arrive, June slaps us with a heat wave strong enough to push the buildings down into the asphalt. We’re now into the middle of the month and the trees and flowers have exploded into full bloom. Winter is suddenly forgotten, put away with the warm boots in the basement. A strong wind, intermittently scented with lilac, circles, picking up dust and garbage, whirling it down the street in a series of mini tornados. In the distance, explosions of light accentuate the edges of the black cumulus out over Lake Ontario, signalling the coming storm. I, however, was dealing with one that had already arrived.
Lauren and I pulled into the parking lot at the Stanford Galleries barely speaking to each other. On the outside, the building, formerly an ugly hulk of soot-blackened brick, now stood as an still ugly, acid-washed, glass encased monolith, innocuous in the light rain. What did it cost to go from soot black to crap brown and why did they bother? They should have started from scratch. The only redeeming feature was the pair of massive carved doors, older than Canada, that were opened invitingly, guarded by bouncer-types that were checking invitations of the guests that ran for cover from the drizzle. No one checked us. Even knuckle draggers recognize Lauren Stone from her top rated television show, ‘Town Talk’. Celebrities have royal status at public functions, and this obviously qualified.
The huge doors opened to another world and against my predisposition, I was impressed. With the magic of unlimited funds, the interior had been transformed into someone’s version of a space station. White marble gleamed under a glittering silver chandelier the size of a Volkswagen. An imposing, divided staircase led up to a second floor hallway, which overlooked the main room on three sides. Opposite the balustrade, secure doors at regular intervals suggested access to the intimate, individual galleries that, judging from the signs on the doors, housed works of the several sponsored artists. The cutaway in the second floor created a ballroom effect below. Huge splashy canvases, some two stories high, were suspended around the perimeter, impressive blobs of colour. I swear some of them were pulsing. Other than the throbbing art, everything was white. Skylights and steel girders laced the ceiling thirty feet above, where thousands of sparkling fairy lights hung in tendrils of various lengths.
The party was in full swing. I spotted the local media vultures circling, three cameramen capturing the extravaganza on tape with their roving glass eyes. A rock band writhed to their own sweaty, bare-torso rhythm on an elevated stage at the far end of the main room. I could feel the electronic bass pounding across the floor and up through my feet to shake the fillings in my teeth. Everything vibrated to the rap and heavy metal. Beautiful people danced and attempted conversation above the din, careful to see and be seen by each other and especially by the TV cameras. Gloved waiters, percolated through various groups offering champagne and hors d’oeuvres from silver trays. Beyond the dance floor, fifty or so tables, crowned with crisp white linen and extravagant floral arrangements, were reserved for the power crowd.
Lauren quickly dissolved into the glittering throng, shaking hands, kissing cheeks and tossing greetings, working the room like Frank Sinatra. Her acquaintances were legion.
I ignored all the eager, anonymous faces and made my way indifferently to the bar. A double bourbon would insulate me from the hideous politeness and prefabricated conversations. I listened to the band and tried to figure whether they were speaking English or just mumbling to a beat. I scanned the crowd futilely as I drank. The place was full of the usual blank-faced model types from central casting, with their artificial tits and superficial airs, smiling ferociously at any male who smelled of money or influence. I have neither, so I gestured for another bourbon.
Sometime later, I realized that the social vertigo I suffer at parties was disappearing at about the same pace as the alcohol in my glass and the place was starting to look a little better. Snatches of witty dialogue faded in and out over the noise. Savannah had liked parties. I wondered if she would have enjoyed this scene? I swallowed the question like a bitter pill and chased it down with another drink. Yes... the place was definitely looking better.
I spotted Lauren sitting at what was, (I supposed, from it’s location), the table of honour. She caught my eye over the heads of her friends and shot me the look, which I knew, meant to watch the drinking or she would do me an injury. Christ, what a bossy bitch she could be. When was she going to get married and pick on someone else? Poor Roger Smythe. I hoped he was the one. I kept her in focus with slight difficulty as she stood and steered a lovely blonde toward me through the crowd.
I vaguely heard the introductions above the din and then to my relief, the band took a break. Sister number one, Alison Stanford, was a stunner. She was tall, pale and delicate like Savannah had been when we first met. Spun sugar hair, absinthe green eyes, pouty lips and an expensive dentist. Firm, bra-less breasts were nearly contained by her designer dress. I regretted my last drink as I struggled to get an adequate breath. During the introductions, while my eyes roved over her, she shot a javelin glance around the crowd, her gaze landing on a large man who was keeping constant watch on us just inside my peripheral vision. I turned and riveted him with a smile. Judging by the negligible distance between his hairline and eyebrows, and shoulder muscles growing right up to his skull, I assumed he was either a bodyguard or another bouncer. Not boyfriend material. He gave me a bone-cracking smile. A carnivore, not long from the cave. Alison Stanford was on edge, but I figured that, at least inside the building, the lady was safe.
As I turned back toward her, she lit a thousand candlepower smile and asked, “Do you think we achieved the desired look with our renovations, Mr. Stone?”
Lauren answered before I could think of a dazzling reply and explained that she hadn’t brought me up to speed on the new crown jewel in the string of galleries dappled around our fair city. I listened, unimpressed while my sister nattered on about how, unlike herself, I was not a part of the local ‘art scene’ and was busy writing a sequel to ‘The Stalking Murders’ and how she had dragged me away from my brilliant work just to be among the blessed at this re-opening. It was almost within striking distance of the truth, so I let it go.
And just so the lady would know I was capable of speech, I jumped in with complete abandon. “Call me Adam. Were you going for the space station look?” I asked the vision. Lauren rolled her eyes.
“No, certainly not. It’s a cave!” the smile dimmed a fraction, then revived.
“Of course. How stupid of me.” I smiled charmingly as I looked up. “The strings of lights are stalactites. A square, white cave full of glow-worms.” I could hear the bourbon speaking. I looked back into her too green, too shiny eyes. Contact lenses. Tinted. What else was false? I swallowed my question. “What was I thinking?” I joked. ”I can see it now, of course.” I nodded, pleased to have guessed correctly. ”Should be a huge success. Modern... no, futuristic cave art. I get it.”
Alison evaluated my reply through narrowed eyes that missed nothing and revealed less. She made a gracious attempt at laughter, acknowledging the sarcasm. Lauren casually moved closer to Alison and into my line of sight forcing me to see her expression. It said quite clearly, one more ‘faux pas’ and I would have my throat cut. Little sister could say a lot with her eyes. I ignored her, feeling so cool on cruise control. I casually asked Alison where her sister Annie was hiding, fishing for a quick introduction so I could be done with it and get out of the damn place. The question seemed to annoy her. Was she waiting for me to flirt or make a pass, in front of my sister, even? She glared back, looking me up and down like she was going to bid for me at auction, then finally admitted that little sister Annie was uncomfortable with strangers and large gatherings, and might not show herself at all. Our delightful hostess continued to
inform me that she personally handled all of the business, both private and financial. Her voice had a sharp edge to it. She was used to being in charge of her surroundings. It was clear that she took her sister’s concerns seriously (obviously, judging by the hovering security) and would like me to speak to her. I got the impression that sister Annie should have been at her side and risked something by not being there. What power did Alison have over her little sister and do I care? Jesus, I thought, Lauren must have done a hell of a sales job on Miss Alison. This was one powerful woman who could do, or have anything she wanted. Drop dead gorgeous was right, and rich. I sensed an amazing brain working behind the disarming smile. I was intrigued. Not much got past her. A ghost of an unreadable thought glimmered behind her sparkling green eyes; one of those unexplainable things that indicated her highness Alison Stanford had come to a favourable decision. She made an appointment with me for the following day at two o’clock, turned without waiting for my acceptance, and made her way elegantly back to her waiting subjects. I was dismissed.
As soon as she was out of earshot, I asked Lauren if she had a ride home. I wanted to be long gone before the band started up again, and there wasn’t much point in hanging around if the media-shy Annie wasn’t going to show. Besides, the bourbon was watered down and lacked the muzzle velocity of the real stuff I had at home.
