Claudia laughed, eyes shining. “I’m so excited! Hey, you should come to the dance, Lily. You’d love it. We have a great time.”
“I think I might, thanks,” I said, exhilarated at being invited not once, but twice, to the ball, just like a witchy Cinderella.
“So, Lily,” Bronwyn said, turning to me after we watched our excited customer leave, “I got you a present.”
“A present?”
She handed me a heavy rectangle wrapped in birthday paper. I ripped it open to find a used copy of Introduction to Algebra and a slick new math workbook. My heart sank.
“Oh,” I said. “Thank you, Bronwyn,” I managed, trying to keep the loathing from my voice, but failing. I wasn’t that good a witch.
“Don’t think of it as algebra,” she said. “Think of it as the route to a high school diploma. It’s pretty exciting when you think about it that way.”
“Where did you find the book?”
“Believe it or not, I still had the textbook in my daughter’s old room. It’s a little outdated, but the great thing about math is that the answers are always the same. The methods of teaching it might change, but the results never do.”
That was precisely what I didn’t like about math, I thought. Nothing in life should be that predictable.
“Shall we get started?” Bronwyn asked.
“Now?”
“No time like the present, I always say.”
I looked around the shop, hoping for a reprieve. But the half-dozen customers on the floor were absorbed in their private searches, the clothes racks were neat, and Maya was staffing the register. I was trapped.
We started my first algebra tutorial. Bronwyn was gifted at math and was a patient teacher, guiding but not doing the work for me. I could feel my brain getting smarter as it tried to wrap itself around the unfamiliar material. But after about forty minutes, my eyes were bleary and my mind felt like mush. Give me a musty tome of ancient spells over a slick algebra workbook any day. Recipes that called for blood and claws and teeth, no problem. But solving for the mysterious “x”? Torture.
Just as it had during math class as a child, my mind wandered.
I was willing to bet Jerry Becker had made some sort of deal with a demon, given his meteoric rise from obscure delivery boy to billionaire entrepreneur, his “devil’s own luck,” his consistent success with women. Was Aidan helping him? I had known Aidan only a short time, and my first instinct had been not to trust him. Still, after he stood by me the last time I faced down a phantom, I thought perhaps I had misjudged him. But if he was assisting humans to make deals with demons . . .
I took a couple of deep breaths to calm myself. It was a big deal to accuse someone of making a deal with a demon. I may not have read The Great Gatsby, but I was pretty familiar with Goethe’s Faust. Faust’s deal with the devil has been an enduring theme in movies and literature, and it was even sometimes played for comedy. But actually calling up a demon to achieve a goal required a level of audacity bordering on the psychotic. It was kind of like conjuring a tsunami to put out a campfire; effective to be sure, but you’d have to be crazy to try it. And there was always a whole lot of collateral damage.
What really bothered me was Aidan’s inconvenient disappearance. Had he been part of the earlier antics at the school? But how? I didn’t know his exact age, but he couldn’t be more than forty. He wasn’t even born when Jerry was romancing Eugenia, was he?
“Lily?” Bronwyn interrupted my thoughts.
“Hmm?”
“I don’t think you’re concentrating. You’ve been staring at that same problem for ten minutes now.”
“I . . . oh look, here’s Susan!”
Susan Rogers swept into the shop with a flourish. She had a woman of similar age and coloring at her side.
“I decided it was simply too evil of me to outshine my sister on her baby’s wedding day,” Susan said. “So here we are! Lily, this is my sister, Joanne. Make of us what you will. I’ve been simply dying to try on some of those old dresses you dug up at the art school.”
Susan donned a few of the Victorian-era garments and fell in love with an exquisite jet-beaded Victorian cape, but in general the style didn’t suit her. Besides, all the dresses from the closet were sized too small; no way around that one. Instead, I pulled out a 1960s Pat Sandler floral gold and copper brocade. Both sisters loved it.
“It’s a size fourteen,” Susan said. “I’m a twelve at most.”
“There’s no way you’re a twelve if I’m a fourteen,” said Joanne. “Have you looked in a full- length mirror lately? You might want to check out the rear view, is all I’m saying.”
“You’re just jealous. You’ve had three children, Joanne. It’s only natural that I would have kept my figure.”
“I’m not saying you didn’t keep your figure—you’ve always been at least a fourteen.”
“Says you,” Susan said with a gasp.
Their sniping made me nervous until I noticed that Bronwyn was chuckling at their quips. Then I leaned back against the sales counter, observing their obvious closeness. I envied them the ease of their teasing sibling relationship.
“Sizing has changed over time,” I pointed out. “I always advise people to ignore labels, rather to look at the fit. Besides that, if it’s slightly too big, we can take it in. That’s an easy fix. The other way around is a lot tougher.”
People used to be smaller than they are now; not just skinnier, but more petite all the way around. Daily vitamins and improved year-round nutrition had grown a healthier populace, in general, than our forebears. But this made it tough for today’s average adult to find vintage clothes that actually fit.
Maya’s mother, Lucille, was an excellent seamstress, and she had come up with many clever ways to modify old clothes for twenty- first-century dimensions: Inserting extra panels when we replaced old zippers in the back, for instance, to broaden the waist; or releasing darts for more ample busts and wider shoulders. Lately Lucille and I had been planning a new venture: making patterns from old styles and cuts to be manufactured in any size. But that plan was still on the cutting board, so to speak.
“Would it be too over-the-top if I wore the dress with these great cowboy boots?” Susan asked. She was standing in front of the three-panel mirror, trying to see herself from the back. The “mod” Pat Sandler style suited her perfectly, and the fit was just right.
Joanne just chuckled and rolled her eyes.
“If the Chronicle fashion editor can’t get away with it, I don’t know who can,” I said with a smile.
“I like your attitude, Lily,” Susan said, giving her sister a significant look. “Some people know original style when they see it.”
“Uh-huh. Whatever floats your boat, there, my dear sister.”
Joanne tried on the same dinner dress that Claudia had just an hour ago, but on her it looked perfect. Twenty minutes later Maya rang up the satisfied customers, wrapping the dresses carefully. They didn’t even need to be altered.
“Lily, what time do you want to leave for Ginny’s opening?” Maya asked.
“Is this Ginny Mueller’s art show? I’m going to that,” mentioned Susan. “I just got the assignment to cover the opening. There’s buzz about it already.”
“I thought you were the fashion editor,” I said.
“I am, but they’ve laid off half of us at the paper. Now I’m Arts and Entertainment as well, as though I know anything about the subject.”
“Don’t be so modest,” said Bronwyn. “I’ll bet you have a great eye for art. And entertainment, for that matter.”
“I don’t know about that, but what little I’ve seen so far of Ginny’s work, I do think it’s just stellar.”
“Who knew, right?” said Maya. “I mean, she’s my friend and all, but I couldn’t believe how she pulled it all together. Everyone’s really excited about the show.”
Chapter 15
The gallery was right downtown, on Geary not far from Union Squ
are. It was a lovely, airy space with brick walls, arched windows, and soaring white walls. Ginny’s works, both paintings and sculptures, were mounted and hung very professionally; unfortunately, all the lovely curating in the world couldn’t make up for the fact that the art wasn’t very good.
Or at least, it didn’t seem very good to me. Apparently, I was the only one in the room who remained underwhelmed . . . but what did I know about modern art? I found it hard to enjoy pictures and shapes I couldn’t decipher. I had enough hard-to-understand murk in my life as it was.
The gallery was jammed with people, some of whom I recognized: Marlene and Todd, of course; Kevin Marino, the security guard; and even Wendy and Xander from the café.
And one man who looked vaguely familiar: handsome, rather corporate looking, with slick, styled hair and blue eyes. He stood next to a pretty, noticeably pregnant woman. I couldn’t quite place him but felt as if I had seen him before.
“Would ya look at that,” Wendy said, solving the mystery for me. “The freaking mayor is here with his wife. Ginny must be pretty connected.”
“Maybe they come to everyone’s opening,” suggested Maya, sipping the bright glass of Chardonnay Kevin had brought to her. “Support the arts and all that.”
“Ginny is the provost’s daughter,” I said. “And the school’s important to the city, I would imagine.”
As if on cue, Marlene Mueller ambled by, holding tight to Todd’s arm. He looked especially handsome in a nice gray suit, and she was chic as always in an artsy, hand-crocheted coat worn over a plain black shift. The couple seemed relaxed and happy; Todd was leaning down to hear what Marlene was saying, and they smiled into each other’s eyes.
“What do you make of the whole cougar thing?” Kevin asked us after the pair passed by.
Wendy and Maya shrugged.
“I like all the big cats,” I said.
Maya laughed. “Not that kind of cougar. He means the older woman-younger man thing.”
“What does that have to do with mountain lions?”
“The older woman in that kind of relationship is called a cougar,” Kevin explained.
“Really? Why?” I asked.
“I have no idea, now that you ask,” he said with a laugh. “All’s I know is that when you get a woman in her forties with a man in his twenties, they call the woman a cougar.”
“Interesting.”
“I hear Todd lost his mom early—she walked out on him and his dad. Maybe he’s looking for a substitute,” Kevin suggested, not unkindly.
“Could be, though I’m not sure a big difference in age is necessarily a result of trauma,” I said. “Maybe it’s just one of those strange quirks, where they fell in love with each other despite the obvious differences.”
“You’re a romantic at heart, Lily,” teased Maya.
“I just think people can fall in love, even if they come from really different backgrounds,” I said. Or at least I hoped they could.
Just then I noticed Dave Kessler walk into the gallery with Andromeda Becker. I was surprised to see them; from our talk the other day, I had gathered that neither of them was a big Ginny Mueller fan.
“So what do you call that guy, then?” They all turned to look. “Dave Kessler, the man with Andromeda? There’s at least as much of an age difference between them as with Todd and Marlene.”
“That guy’s dating Andromeda Becker?” Kevin asked, surprise in his voice.
I nodded. “So what would you call him? A tiger?”
“More like a dirty old man,” Kevin said.
“That sounds about right,” Wendy agreed with a smile.
The crowd sipped wine and oohed and aahed over Ginny’s bright, abstract canvases and even more difficult-to-decipher sculptures. Fellow students and outsiders alike seemed to be bowled over by the work. I even saw Dave Kessler put a red dot sticker, signaling a sale, on the frame of one expansive, colorful oil painting.
I noticed Todd standing off to the side while Marlene chatted with a group of what looked to be potentially wealthy donors. I took the opportunity to talk with him alone.
“Hi, Todd. How’s it going?”
“Well, thanks. Great turnout, isn’t it?”
“I’m so glad for Ginny. Todd, I know this is awkward timing, but I wanted to ask you: Andromeda mentioned you two talked the night Becker was killed. She was upset.”
Todd’s eyes looked wary. His nostrils flared slightly.
“Becker was trying to talk Andromeda into pursuing a relationship with Walker Landau. I thought it was just plain creepy.”
“Isn’t Andromeda old enough to make her own decisions?”
“I guess . . . but Becker was a hard one to go up against. So I thought I could talk to Walker, get him to lay off.”
Speaking of Walker Landau, it dawned on me that he was rather conspicuous by his absence tonight.
“Did Walker have some sort of pull over Becker?”
I could feel Todd’s aura shift. He looked over at me, startled. Then he relaxed and shrugged.
“I guess now that Becker’s dead, it doesn’t really matter. You know the suicide that supposedly took place on the bell tower stairs? Walker thought Jerry Becker actually pushed the guy down the stairs all those years ago.”
“Did he say what made him think that?”
He shook his head. “Personally, I hated the idea. I was always rather taken by the romance of the suicide, loving someone that much. It sort of ruins it to think it was actually murder.”
“Murder? What was murder?” asked Marlene as she came up to us.
“These art openings are murder,” Todd responded smoothly. “How long do we have to stay?”
“Oh, you naughty boy.” Marlene poked him in the side and favored him with a coy smile. All I could think of was wildcats. “You know perfectly well we have to act as host and hostess tonight. Poor Ginny is overwhelmed.”
I followed Marlene’s gaze to her daughter, who lurked in the corner, looking glum. She was wearing her usual ripped jeans, but she had dressed them up with a black top slit asymmetrically on one shoulder, her short hair artistically tousled; lots of eye makeup; heavy lip gloss; huge chandelier earrings of worked silver that caught the light whenever she turned her head. She looked good as always, piquant and big eyed . . . but lost. One thing was certain: She did not have the mien of an artist whose dream had come true.
“Is she okay?” I asked.
“It’s all a bit much,” Marlene said. “With art openings, you work your fingers to the bone up until the last second, and it can be hard to be scintillating after that.”
“Marlene, I know this isn’t the best time to talk about this, but I think you should consider closing the school. Just for a few days.”
Her sherry-colored eyes fixed on me. “What are you talking about?”
“You know yourself that things are getting out of hand there. The students are bickering; they can’t be getting much done.”
“I just don’t know. . . . I’ll think about it,” she said, sounding distracted and looking over my shoulder.
“If you could close for a few days, I could . . .”
My attention was caught by something stuck to Marlene’s intricately crocheted coat—a small piece of paper. I picked it off.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Marlene said. “I was working on a collage piece earlier.”
I studied it. Faded ink on yellowed parchment paper. I could make out part of a word; it looked French.
“Where did you get this?” I asked her, but Marlene had already moved on, fulfilling her hostess duties, chatting now with the mayor and his wife.
Todd began to follow in her wake, but I grasped his arm.
“Todd, you didn’t happen to take a letter from the third-floor closet, did you?”
“What?”
“There was a letter, written in French. It was with the stuff in the closet; it must have been written to one of the nuns.”
“I don’t remember seeing an
ything like that. Sorry. I’d better get back to Marlene,” he said, and headed after her.
I stood staring down at the little scrap of paper, trying to glean something from it.
“Did you buy the smallest painting Ginny had for sale?”
I looked up and smiled at Luc.
“Not exactly. Luc, do you know what happened to the French letter you started reading in the closet the other night?”
“I put it back in the box where I found it.”
“And I have the box at my store, but not the letter. Strange.”
“Maybe it’s still in the closet?”
“Maybe. Anyway, how are you?”
“Do you mean in the sense of making polite party chitchat, or in the larger sense?”
“The larger, I guess. How is . . . what we talked about yesterday?”
“Nothing new to report. Some weirdness to be sure, but I’m getting a lot of work done. I just don’t always remember doing it.”
“Luc, I told you yesterday: You should stay away from the school. It could be dangerous.”
“It’s not that easy. I work there.”
“Couldn’t you go stay with Max, or your father? Doesn’t he live around here? I think you should be around people you can trust. Just for a few days. I’m hoping to figure out what’s going on.”
“I have to hand it to Ginny,” Luc said, looking around the room and nodding absentmindedly. “This is some amazing artwork.”
“You like it?”
He nodded. “Very much.”
“Oh, me, too,” said Bronwyn as she joined us.
“Isn’t it something?” Susan said breathlessly as she whirled by, gushing about the newest young artistic talent, snapping pictures with a tiny digital camera, and jotting down notes in a leather-bound book.
Not for the first time, I was the pariah in the room.
Okay, so I wasn’t a modern-art lover. I really never even understood Pablo Picasso’s appeal; I could see that the cubist revolution was important to the art world, but I didn’t particularly care. Anything later than his blue period failed to evoke any emotional response from me. And don’t even get me started on Jasper Johns, or Jackson Pollock, or Rothko.
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