by Dale Mayer
Just then the phone rang. She stared at it, almost hating to answer. When she picked it up, Richard was on the line. “How did you know I just woke up?” she asked, feeling confused.
“I didn’t,” he said, “but it’s ten o’clock.”
She gasped in horror. “Oh, my God. I’m late.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Remember. You’re the boss. You’re the artist. And you’re supposed to be eclectic, creative, and on your own time frame.”
“I also run a business,” she said. “Other people depend on me, and, therefore,” she added, “I pride myself on being on time.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” he asked with a smile. “But today is an exception.”
“Did you get some sleep last night?” She couldn’t help asking.
“Actually, I did,” he said brightly. “Have you had a shower?”
“No, but I had one last night.” She held out her splayed fingers, studying the paint residue critically. It looked like she had done a pretty decent job.
“Good. Tell Graham that you can let me up then.”
“You’re here?” She bolted from bed. “I’m not dressed.”
“I wasn’t planning on coming in and attacking you,” he said with a note of humor. “Get dressed by the time I get there. We can have breakfast.” And, with that, he hung up.
Her intercom rang a few moments later. She hit the button. “Yes, Graham, you can send Richard up.”
His voice was full of laughter. “You’ve got a live one,” he said. “I approve.” And he hung up.
She stared at the intercom in shock. Did everybody feel that she was in need of companionship? She raced back to her bedroom, pulled out a sundress that didn’t need a bra, stepped into white cotton panties, ran a brush through her hair, and quickly twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck. By the time she was done, there was a knock on her door. She walked over, threw it wide open, and glared at him. “A little more warning next time?”
“If I have time to give you warning,” he said, “maybe.” And he walked in, taking a good look at her face. “Doesn’t look like you had the best of nights though, huh?”
“No,” she said. “Definitely not. Full of nightmares and demons, and, you know, nasty people who cut up others.”
“To be expected,” he said. “Have you got coffee made yet?”
“No,” she said with exasperation. “I haven’t had time.”
“Well, you start warming up the spaghetti, and I’ll do the coffee.”
She watched in amazement as he walked over, studied her big expresso machine, gave a clipped nod, and immediately made coffee. “It took me three months to figure out how to use that machine,” she said crossly.
“Well, if you had called me in”—he gave her a knowing look—“I could’ve told you in twenty minutes.”
By the time the spaghetti was warmed up, she’d already had her first cup of coffee. They took their heated plates and a second cup over to the table set up by the big window, where she normally had her breakfast. The two of them sat opposite each other.
She looked down at the spaghetti. “You’re very pushy, you know? But I forgive you because I’m facing the very same spaghetti I had last night.”
He chuckled. “I’m pushy when I need to be because, the bottom line is, if you want something in life, you have to go after it.”
She froze, looked up at him, and said, “Are you saying that I’m something you want?”
He gave her a droll look. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she said. “Did you plan this last night?” She attacked the spaghetti in front of her.
“Partly,” he said, “if it makes sure that you eat before you head off to your full day, then yes.”
“I have to interview those models today.” She looked at her watch and grimaced, as the phone rang beside her.
He looked up at her.
“I have to at least tell her that I’ll be on my way in an hour.”
He gave a clipped nod. She quickly answered Anita’s call, saying that she just woke up, was eating now, and would be over there soon. When she hung up the phone, she said, “And I still feel bad.”
“Are all these models hopeful of working with you?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Then I’m sure they’ll be happy to wait. You didn’t cancel. You just postponed.”
“I know,” she said, “but—” Her attention was quickly diverted back to the spaghetti. She was shocked when she realized she’d eaten the whole thing already. She stared up from her empty plate and looked at him. “How did that happen?”
“Well, for starters, some leftovers are still on the counter,” he said, “but that’s a decent amount you’ve eaten this morning. Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”
“You can’t just spend your life taking care of me,” she muttered.
“Yes, I can,” he said. “Are you painting today?”
“Only to get an idea of skin tones,” she said. “It shouldn’t matter, but, with some of my images, it does.”
“An extra layer of paint?”
“Oily versus dry, extra layers, darker skin versus lighter skin, all of the above.” She hopped up, walked over, grabbed a pair of light sandals, picked up her purse, and said, “Let’s go.”
He smiled at her. “While you were doing that, I put your dishes in the dishwasher.”
“That’s probably no help,” she said. “I haven’t turned that sucker on in forever.”
“Which is why it was empty,” he said with a laugh.
“Exactly,” she said, chuckling.
Shortly afterward, as they walked into her gallery, he stepped back and watched as she proceeded to first apologize for being late and then immediately got down to business.
“Morning, Anita. Where are the models?”
“They’re in the back room, having a cup of coffee,” Anita said. She stood with her pad of paper and a pen and asked, “What do you want me to do?”
“One at a time in my office, please,” she said.
“Do you want the images too?”
“Of course,” she said, nodding. She walked into her office, turned, looked back at Richard, and frowned.
He grinned back at her. “I’m just watching.” He pointed at her office and said, “Am I a problem?”
“With the models?” She thought about it and shook her head. “Particularly if you can find out in any way, shape, or form if any of these potential models would also be potential victims?” she said in a low voice. “The last thing I want is to bring in new models and have any of them be injured.”
He very carefully didn’t remind her that injured was one thing; dead was another entirely.
She pointed to one of the bigger chairs on the side of her office and said, “Why don’t you just park yourself and pretend to be busy.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing,” he said, “and that’s keeping an eye on you and the energy around you.”
At the word energy, she froze, slowly lifting her gaze, and looked at him. “What’s that about energy?”
Just then Anita walked in. He motioned and said, “Later.”
She nodded, and he watched as the procession started. She asked the first model several questions, checked on her skin tone, got up, walked around, looking for tattoos. Of course she was looking at auras, emotions, darkness. Looking for ones she could work with.
This one asked, “Do you want me to strip down?”
But Cayce was completely nonchalant when she said, “No. I have the full front and back photos,” she said. “That’ll be fine.” She held out a tiny paintbrush and said, “I need to check the skin tone and oiliness.”
“Where?” the model asked.
“Your back. And I promise. I’ll clean it off.”
The girl looked at him nervously and then looked away.
“I can leave if you’re uncomfortable,” he offer
ed gently.
She looked at him in surprise. “God, no,” she said. “I’m a body model. It’s what I do. I just don’t know if you’re here judging too.”
“Neither of us are judging,” Cayce said. “It’s just important that I have what I need,” she said. When she was done, she took some cream and a Kleenex, walked over to the model, snapped several photos, and then quickly wiped off the sample that she had done. She smiled at the young girl, liking her innocence and lightness. “Thanks.”
The girl looked disappointed, turned, leaving Cayce’s office, putting one foot on top of the other. “Is there any way to know when you’ll tell me?”
“Not just yet,” she said. “I have four today, and another one I have to look at.”
“So, is this just for one job you’re looking to fill?”
“Not necessarily,” Cayce said, easily, gently. “I do these types of things on a regular basis. So, it’s a matter of having a couple regular models and a couple standbys.”
The girl looked relieved. “I’d be really, really happy to work with you,” she said impulsively.
Cayce’s face split into a wonderful warm smile. “Thank you,” she said. “Now, go off have a coffee, enjoy life, and I’ll get back to you.”
The girl ran out, laughing. She left a lightness in the room. Cayce looked at Richard, a smile on her face.
“Is that what you’re looking for?” he asked curiously.
“Not necessarily for this one,” she said, “but, in certain pieces, yes. That energy will shine through.”
He nodded slowly and watched as she repeated the exercise with three other models. She quickly tested the skin on each of the models with a paint that, to him, looked like white, but he had to admit that she was right. The color was coming off differently on each of the models. He frowned, fascinated.
The fourth one caught his breath in the back of his throat. Her skin was almost caramel. She was stunning, and she knew it. Yet it came across as self-confidence, not arrogance. Cayce was not in any way looking at her face. The woman stood completely still, while Cayce walked around, did a test sample, looking at the model’s skin, asking a few questions, which the model readily answered. When she stepped back, the model looked at her and asked, “Do I pass?”
“You definitely pass,” she said. Cayce stood off to the side, tapping her lips, as she considered what she apparently wanted out of this. When she finally dismissed the model, she turned to Richard and frowned. “Some of them are close, but not one is exactly right.”
“But will one do?”
She groaned. “That’s the thing about art,” she said. “There’s no such thing as will do. It’s either good or it’s bad.” Then she stopped, frowned, and said, “But I’m out of time, so I need to choose.”
Her expression said she just remembered something. She walked over to her monitor and clicked the keyboard.
“Did you remember something?”
“One of Frankie’s friends,” she said. She brought up something on the screen, and the look on her face said she had it. She sat back at the same time as he leaned forward.
“Does this one look better?” he asked.
“Well, she’s interesting,” she said. “The thing is, my mind is caught with the planes of her face and her collarbones and the way she stands. There’s a confidence in her that would be very easy to impart into the body-paintings. The same as the last model.”
“So that’s good, right?”
“Well, it means that she, they, have something,” she said, “that’s indefinable. But I’m not sure it’s malleable. So each would work for some jobs but not likely for all jobs.”
“Maybe it’s time,” he said, “to not look for someone perfect for all jobs but to have a pool to add something fresh and different every time.”
“Right,” she said. “So, pick one for this next job, pick one for the job after that, and see how I like them.” She brought up the folders, quickly flipped through them, pulled out two, and said, “We’ll start with these two.” She called out to Anita. “Here.”
Anita walked in and said, “Did you make a decision?”
“These two,” she said, and she wrote something on a sticky note and stuck it on the top folder. “This is for the ice installation, and this other one will work for next week’s forest scene.”
“Does she look like a wood sprite?” Anita asked with a smile.
“No, but I think I could turn her into one,” Cayce said seriously.
“Do you want to put out the call for more?”
“No,” she said. “I have another one on my screen. I’ll bring her in too.”
“Oh.” Anita looked down at the folders in her hand. “Not one of these?”
Cayce shook her head. “No, this is another one.” But she didn’t elaborate.
Richard watched the byplay and noted Anita’s irritation at not knowing anything about the third model. As soon as she left, he leaned forward and said, “What was that all about?”
“Just a little bit of a problem between Anita and Frankie,” she said with a smile. “Even artists have to deal with other people. It’d be nice if I didn’t, but I do,” she said. She pulled out her phone and called Frankie. As soon as he answered, she said, “Can you come in here for a minute, please?”
Richard sat back and watched and waited. As soon as Frankie walked in, she said, “Tell your friend I want to see her.”
His face lit up with joy. “She’ll be thrilled!”
Cayce looked at her watch and said, “As soon as possible. She probably won’t be for either of the next two jobs, but I would like to see about maybe giving her a try. But I want to see her first.”
“I’m on it,” he said, beaming.
But, at that time, something caught her attention right behind him.
“What’s going on?” Anita asked, poking her nose into the room.
Cayce gave her a look. “I’m having a private conversation.”
Anita looked quite disgruntled, but she backed out. And it gave rise to the first inclination that all was not well in Cayce’s world.
Richard stood, waved at her, and said, “I’ll just do a walk around.”
She nodded and kept on talking to Frankie.
He left her inner office, stepping into the gallery, but, after another step, he stopped, pissed to see at least a dozen people milled around. He didn’t look at Anita before he asked, “What are all these people doing?”
“Could be anything,” she said. “It’s a bloody open-door policy around here.”
Richard nodded and decided to go check that out for himself.
*
He wanted to see the model lineup. To see Cayce’s choices. He knew good ones. Had been around beautiful women all his life. His sister, for example. She’d been a model in her prime time. Unfortunately she had breast cancer, and those beautiful boobs had disappeared, along with the rest of her, forming this wasted landscape of organic material. He couldn’t stand being around her anymore. She was this rotting piece of flesh that just couldn’t seem to die fast enough. She and Elena had been close friends. He knew that Elena and his sister had both been really bothered by his attitude toward his own sister. It really bothered him too. But he could do nothing about it. He thought about trying to preserve her flesh, but he didn’t see what the point was. The light was gone. She was no longer a masterpiece. She was this crippled caricature.
He got up, left his apartment, walked into the big gallery, and perused the huge images that showcased Cayce’s work. He just couldn’t even imagine the kind of money renting this space cost. These people were absolutely fanatical about having that art gallery look.
His heart gave a happy sigh when he wandered through her art on display here. She was incredibly talented. He kept striving for that. It was the one thing he wanted to achieve for himself. But a part of him wondered if he could ever make it. Finally realizing that he’d been all the way around yet again in her gallery, he turned, walking tow
ard the exit.
Somebody else was in the room, studying him. He quickly picked up his pace; by the time he got to the front door, he was almost running. As he bolted down the sidewalk, he then dodged through the traffic, heading across the street to the little magazine stand. His hands were shaking. He stared down at them, swearing under his breath. When a hand reached out, grabbed him by the shoulder, he freaked. And, sure enough, he turned to see the detective standing there. Staring at him.
He bolted. He heard the shout behind him, but he ignored it. No way he would go back in there again, at least not without making sure that this guy wasn’t there. Jesus Christ, where the hell had he come from?
*
Naomi stared in outrage as the models came out one by one. She sat in a coffee shop just fifty feet away and could see clearly what was going on, which just hit her, like a red-hot poker to the skin. How dare that bitch do this to me, she screamed in her head, but outside she smiled a bitter, vengeful smile and whispered, “Bitch, you’ll get yours.”
“Stop,” Derek said, in a soothing tone.
She turned and glared at him. “No, I’m not stopping,” she snapped. “Do you see what she’s doing?”
“No,” he said, “I don’t see what she’s doing.”
“She’s checking out other models,” she snapped.
“Well, of course she is,” he said. “Elena is gone. She has to have new material.”
“I’m the next Elena,” she sneered.
He sat back and looked at her, his long elegant manicured fingers thrumming out a beat on the table. “Obviously not,” he said gently.
“Don’t say that,” she said, in a tightly controlled voice. “That email means nothing.”
“That email means that your services are not wanted for the next show.”
“So what?” she said with a toss of her head. “When she has a chance to think about it, she’ll realize she needs me.”
Derek said, “I don’t think so. I think she’s moved on. What was spoken between the two of you anyway?”
“I was tired, hungover, and she was taking all day. It was obvious that she shouldn’t have been painting that day in the first place.”
