by Alan Russell
Anita.
The body looked familiar now also. There was a triple meaning to Vincent’s title. He probably had needed her. And kneaded her. Anita.
Everyone said Vincent didn’t believe in waste. He liked to see his oddments. And Anita was just another oddment. In death he had used her for a last painting. Take, paint, this is her body. I wondered how far his inspiration had extended, whether he had taken an epidermal layer and painted over that, or just snipped some pubic hairs. It was Anita on canvas, maybe too literally. I was sure of that.
I was on a grisly roll, and looked at the second painting and waited for revelations. How had Anita contributed to The Plastic Surgeon’s Mistress? Everyone’s first glance was at the wife’s wound. Vincent would have known that. And what I judged was that the trickling design of blood was too lifelike, too inspired. Under the paint would be found Anita’s blood, covered over and covered up, but there for Vincent to know. He probably wouldn’t have painted over the blood if it hadn’t been necessary, but blood pales and turns to rust when it stops flowing. That probably meant Vincent had added some paint. I looked at the pool of blood at the woman’s feet. The knife had fallen there also, but it didn’t look so much like a throwing knife as a painter’s tool, the kind that’s used to scrape paint from palettes. And there was a reflection I noticed for the first time from the pool of blood. It wasn’t the knife thrower’s wife, for she faced her husband. It was Anita.
I had to step away from the paintings, Vincent’s testimonials to murder. It’s not the kind of thing you can prepare for. It made me a little weak, and a little careless, made me want to not think about everything that had happened. But the dominos kept clicking, or was it bones that were rolling? It was clear the murder had excited him. Her seeping life inspired his art. And while she was dying, while she bled to death, he had probably thrown a canvas or two under her to capture the escaping remains of her life. Maybe he hadn’t meant to kill her, but in death he had used her.
“You will not move.”
I almost laughed. And it almost was comic. Entrances and lines like that went out with black-and-white movies. But a very black gun was centered on me, and Vincent’s very white teeth were smiling.
“I was in the neighborhood,” I said, my answer quick, if not sure. “I saw someone had broken into your place. Looks like they wanted to get your paintings. Maybe I scared them off.”
“Move back,” he said, and then signed murderer. Unconsciously. But I believed him, and moved back.
“I don’t know if they got away with any paintings,” I said. “There are only twelve left.”
Vincent was standing where I had stood. He was alternately looking at me, and at the two paintings. I waited for him to pay more attention to his works, or put down his gun, but he didn’t seem interested in doing either.
“Twelve paintings?” he asked. “Then why were you interested in only these two?”
And then he signed again. Murderer.
“They were up there. Like I said, I probably scared the thieves away . . .”
“Those interesting thieves who just happened to put aside these two paintings, these paintings you were so curiously interested in. I thought you didn’t like Vincent’s paintings.”
I put on a silly grin, and started edging toward the door. “That from someone who really doesn’t know anything about art . . .”
“Stop moving, Mr. Winter. Vincent knows how to use this gun, and he won’t hesitate. You’ve given Vincent the perfect excuse to kill you, and I haven’t yet thought of a reason I shouldn’t accept your offer. Vincent came to his loft. There were signs of a break-in. Vincent happened to be carrying some protection, for this isn’t the safest area, and regretfully used his protection when he was attacked in his studio. Vincent defended himself. Do you want to die now?”
I shook my head.
Murderer, he signed. His right hand, his gun hand, moving.
“That’s a clever idea.”
“Because I’d hate to just be taken down to the morgue. That is, if you have to shoot me.”
“Your discoveries don’t give Vincent a choice. I watched you. You saw those paintings for what they are. You know.”
His gun was getting too centered. I had to keep him talking. “I imagine Anita was grateful that you immortalized her death. She probably even participated.”
“She didn’t. She was most churlish.”
Murderer, he signed.
“Didn’t she understand?”
“No. Vincent explained to her. Told her he needed her ears. You remember Van Gogh, don’t you? How he gave up his ear to a woman?”
“Yes.”
“Vincent found Anita on New Year’s Eve. It was unexpected. But when I saw her damaged ear, I knew what I was called upon to do. I took her to the studio, and then asked for her offering. She didn’t use her ears anyway, and I wanted them.”
“And what did she say?”
“She didn’t understand. She never understood. Whenever Vincent painted her, he talked with her. Vincent told her things, beautiful things, and she never heard. She wanted Vincent to face her, to explain, but Vincent couldn’t do that. I knew our time would come.”
“You weren’t lovers?”
“Our bond was deeper than that. She was meant for Vincent.”
Murderer, he signed.
“You took her ear?”
“Vincent took both of them. Vincent surpassed Van Gogh.”
“But she fought you?”
“She didn’t understand. Vincent tried to explain, but she wouldn’t listen. So, Vincent held her throat until she didn’t move, and then he gathered her ears.”
“But she wasn’t dead yet, was she?”
“She awakened for a little white—afterwards.”
“And you already had the canvases under her?”
“Yes.”
“And what did she do?”
Murderer, he signed.
Vincent measured me with his eyes. “Her blood was so vital, so inspiring.”
“How will you use me?” I asked.
Vincent was skeptical. “You are not the type to willingly give your life to art. You are selfish.”
“Selfish enough to want to live forever. With my blood as your oil, I might.”
Vincent rubbed his beard with his left hand. “Yes,” he said, “you might.”
I kept talking. I knew the moment I wanted, but he had to be nearer.
“But if I have to die,” I said, “I want an active death. I want my life fluid to spurt out, not to be collected from the floor. I’d rather live, but that’s not possible, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Then set up the canvases near to me. Shoot me so that I may paint my own story.”
Vincent was getting excited. “Yes,” he said. “Vincent is inspired. Vincent will use you in a painting. Vincent will call it Light Bearer, and you will be Prometheus who brought us fire. And the fire will be blood red, and it will be you.”
Murderer, he signed.
Vincent motioned me with his gun hand to a point in the loft away from the windows and the exit, and then he readied himself for my red painting. He decided my last testaments would be on two canvases. I wasn’t going to go out six foot down, but on measurements five foot by seven, and four foot by three. I watched my shrouds being stretched and prepared from across the room. He worked with the gun next to his hand, his labors rote, his eyes more on me than his canvases. Vincent finished quickly, set up the canvases next to some pillars, then repositioned me with his gun. I did the .44 shuffle, the waving sights moving me right and left, until finally I was where he wanted me, even if my canvases weren’t. He told me not to move, not even to breathe, and I believed in his words, and his gun hand. He was off to my right, working with his left hand, but his attention wasn’t divided. He moved the canvases by feel. I knew he’d get no closer.
“Vincent,” I asked softly, “what did Anita say to you when she awakened for the first time
?”
Murderer, he began to sign, his gun moving forward and twisting under his left palm.
With the sign of his guilt, I ran at him. And just as his hand and gun were tilted, my long leg kicked at his crotch. He tried to hurry the gun along, tried to finish his work and shoot me, but my hand found his face first. As he fell back, I hit him once more, a chop to his forearm. He dropped the gun.
It fell between the two of us, but I was the only one standing. I grabbed it from the floor, and then he lunged at my leg. He wrenched my knee, and tried to bring me down. I was given an instant to make a decision, and I did.
I tell myself there was only one decision, that I couldn’t have taken the chance of just hitting his head with the gun. I had but an instant to act, even if that instant was enough to think and deliberate about all of the possibilities at hand. I chose the possibility in hand.
I shot him through the back of his neck.
He had several moments more of life, and took them to face me, and stare me in the eye.
And then he signed murderer at me, and died.
20
THE POLICE WANTED STATEMENTS, and more statements. I gave them most of what they wanted, leaving a few closets closed, including one or two of mine. There were some people I didn’t want bothered, and a few facts that wouldn’t look good for a PI, so I gave the truth according to Winter, which wasn’t the whole truth and nothing but the truth, but it was close enough.
The press was stirred up. It was a headline writer’s dream, and promised to be good play for days. Vanishing wilderness, global warming, acid rain, and diminished quality of life aren’t stories people want to read when compared to murder. The media waited around for the bits and pieces that came out, and that’s what they got.
The police were still questioning me at the station when they found Anita’s ears. They were in Vincent’s freezer at his home. Her ears, and lab analysis of the two paintings, legitimized my story.
I told the police about Vincent’s penchant for “oddments,” and how I suspected they might find parts of the rest of Anita’s body in some deep freeze. They said they would pursue my theory, and finally released me, but not without the familiar spiel about my being available for further questioning.
I successfully avoided the press by staying at Norman Cohen’s house. He was between wives, and had an extra room. I pretended to be asleep when he arrived home, and slipped out when he finally retired. I wasn’t ready for sleep yet.
I kept telling myself I was stupid, that the case was over. But I didn’t want to sleep, because I knew Anita would still be in my dreams. And I knew when I asked her who her murderer was, she wouldn’t sign Vincent. She—or my subconscious—never had.
Sergeant Don Bryant wasn’t too pleased to hear from me at midnight, but he owed me, and made good on his debt. I picked him up and we drove to Vincent’s home on Pacific Heights. Our conversation was brief. He knew about the day’s events, but didn’t ask me about them, didn’t even ask why I wanted to go to Vincent’s house.
“Why didn’t you call me earlier?” he asked.
“Two reasons,” I said. “The television crews were doing live spots at eleven. And I was thinking.”
“Why couldn’t it have waited until the morning, then?”
“The media is still dogging me. They would have been around. Right now, they’re making last call.”
Bryant’s badge gained us entry through a police guard. We crossed the yellow DO NOT CROSS police tape that surrounded Vincent’s Victorian house, and went inside. Bryant rubbed his hands and yawned while I walked around. It was full of Vincent’s oddments, but the place wasn’t as messy as his loft.
I walked through the kitchen, and living room, and family room. Bryant tagged along, a sleepy shadow, groaning just a little as we walked upstairs. I got a little angry at human nature. I had shot someone fourteen hours earlier, had lived a day of coffee, recriminations, more coffee, too much smoke, and hoarseness. I wanted that warm shoulder, and an end to the day and all the business of it, but there were a few things I had to see. Or not see.
There were three bedrooms. I walked through the first two, pushed a few papers, and opened a few closets. Then I went into the master bedroom. Bryant bumped into me as I left. I had only needed the one glance.
“Aren’t you going to look any more?” he asked.
“No.”
“Are we leaving?”
“Yes.”
Our drive back was also quiet. Bryant tried to sleep. I broke our silence at his house and asked him for one more favor. He told me he’d see what he could see. And then also told me I looked like hell, and should get some sleep.
I decided to go back to my own place. I slept for a few hours, and I didn’t have my dream, but I still looked like hell when I got up in the morning. Miss Tuntland was handling all my calls, and I was sorry for all the bother I was putting her through. I thought of calling her, but decided to hold off for a few hours. There was someone I still had to see.
I didn’t ring the bell. Her door was unlocked. Maybe she was expecting some deliveries.
Of course, she didn’t hear me. She was bent over at work on one of her quilts. I watched her work for a few minutes, and then she finally noticed me.
“Stuart!” she cried, and then ran and hugged me.
Habit closed my arms around her for a second. Revulsion dropped them to my sides.
Ellen searched my eyes. “I heard about what happened,” she said. “It must have been so horrible.”
I felt my arm move on its own accord, felt it point at her and twist into the appropriate word. She knew the sign, and stepped away from me. The sign had been my companion on and off since I had awakened that morning. It had a mind of its own, a mind I couldn’t control yet. But with the announcement made, I proceeded.
“How did you get the scar on your left ear?” I asked.
She turned away from me, tried to collect her thoughts. I grabbed her shoulders and made her face my lips.
“Tell me,” I said.
“It happened some time ago,” she said.
“How?”
“An accident. I fell . . . ”
“You’re a liar.”
“Stuart, I don’t understand.”
“I visited Vincent’s house yesterday. Hanging in his bedroom is a quilt. Your quilt.”
“I’ve sold my quilts all over . . . ”
“I made a few calls. The two of you were lovers. It happened quickly, almost casually, but Vincent was definitely attracted to you.”
I took my hand from her right shoulder and grabbed her left ear. “It was almost a fatal attraction, wasn’t it?”
“Stuart, I . . . ”
“You had a voice to talk your way through Vincent’s fantasies. You saved your ears, and maybe your life, but you knew how dangerous he was. And you still hated Anita.”
She was trying to close her eyes, trying to turn her head from me, but I wouldn’t let her.
“Vincent said an artist friend recommended Anita. You were that artist friend. But how much of a Judas goat were you? Did you pretend a reconciliation with her?”
She was sobbing now. Her body was shaking in my hands, begging to be held and comforted.
“I didn’t mean for her to die,” Ellen said. “It was just that she was so high and mighty. I thought Vincent might scare her . . . ”
“Just maybe scar or disfigure her,” I said.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“You knew who killed her. You knew what happened. And you never said anything.”
“I didn’t want to look guilty.”
“You even left that nude rag with Anita’s pictures for me in my office. Why?”
“I could tell you were obsessed with Anita. I heard about her pictures, and wanted to show you what kind of woman she was. I wanted you to see, and forget her.”
“I doubt whether the DA will try to prosecute you,” I said. “But I’m going to tell him about your involvemen
t and silence. He’ll probably call it circumstantial and forget about it.”
“And what will you call it?” she asked.
I was going to speak, but my arm acted on its own again, and made the sign that would always stand between us. I turned away and started walking toward my car.
She called to me between her sobs. She said, “Stuart, I love you.”
But it was my turn to be deaf.
The Scotch was in my left hand. It was safer there. The phone was cradled next to my ear, and I was looking over a fireplace that didn’t have a fire. Reporters were still staking out the front of the house, which would give me an excuse not to go out for a few days. A harried Miss Tuntland answered my call on the twentieth ring. There was no friendliness in her “Hello,” and that was a first.
“I’m sorry to be making your life a hell,” I said.
“It’s not your fault.”
Her voice was soft. Women forgive so much more graciously and easily than men.
“So how can I make this up to you?”
“Ask me in a few days. There are lots of calls coming in now and I’m sure they’re all for you. Do you want to hold?”
“No. Let’s just talk for a minute.”
“Are you all right?”
“Was I ever?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I feel better talking with you.”
“Thank you, but you’re still evading the question.”
“You sound like Norman.”
“He’s one of your million messages. He wants to see you.”
“I can’t see anyone for a few days, Miss Tuntland. You’ll have to tell them that. I’m trying to get over something.”
“I understand.”
She didn’t, but she couldn’t see, didn’t know the urge to sign was coming on me even as we spoke. I took a gulp of the Glenfiddich and clenched my right hand.
“How’s your painting coming along, Miss Tuntland?”
She sounded surprised, and didn’t know how to answer. “Fine.”
“What do you paint?”
“Bucolic scenes mostly. Rustic gardens and meadows. Places far from the madness.”
“I’d like to buy one of your paintings.”
