by Molly Greene
“Look, I know you’re right,” she said. “And I’m sorry. I’ve been apologizing way too much lately, though. It’ll hurt my image if I keep it up.”
He regarded her.
Gen knew her expression told him she meant it. “Now come on, slacker.” She punched his shoulder. “I’m about to try to walk you into the ground here.”
When he fell in beside her, he was wearing that understated smile she’d been thinking about since February.
And she wished she’d had the gumption to tell him she might be ready for more.
Chapter Sixteen
When Gen got back to her office a message from Sophie Keene was waiting. She grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, then sat down at her desk to return the call.
Sophie picked up on the second ring. “Hello, Gen.” Caller ID made the question about who was calling obsolete. “I was anxious to hear if you found anything.”
No pre-business chit-chat told Gen Sophie really had been anxious. She felt a stab of regret that she wouldn’t be able to cheer up her day.
“Hey, Sophie.” She switched the phone to her other ear and tried to get more comfortable, as if that would make the lack of information easier to deliver.
“Unfortunately, I didn’t learn much. I showed the painting to about fifty people but didn’t get any suggestions about who the artist might be. One lead, though. On our way out of town, a local artist saw it and looked a bit upset when she did. But she wouldn’t tell us diddly squat, so we came on home.”
There was silence on the line. Gen assumed her client was processing the disappointment. Thirty seconds passed, but when Sophie finally spoke her voice was even.
“What now?”
“Follow up,” Gen replied. “Make some calls and look online and try to learn more. I spotted a canvas that looked like Shannon’s site on the cliff. I’ll try to track down the artist and hope he can give us a lead.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Sophie, I’ve been meaning to ask. I looked over the material you wrote down, and there’s not much about Shannon’s modeling career. Did she get bookings through an agency?”
“Yes, she did. I can’t recall the name, though. I’ll think about it, see if I can dredge it up.”
“Thanks. And I regret the trip wasn’t more successful.”
“Don’t worry. A lot of years have passed. I knew this whole thing was a gamble before we started.”
“Call me when you remember the agent’s name.”
“I will. Genny?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for helping.”
“Thank you for being patient.”
There was a smile in Sophie’s voice when she replied, “It’s one of the things I do best.”
“You’re a better woman than I am. Talk soon.”
Gen swigged the rest of her water and went for another bottle, then rummaged around in the desk until she found a protein bar. She fired up the laptop and munched while it booted up. She’d bookmarked Francie Stoddard’s website, and the first task at hand was to take a look at the menu drop-down that listed the gallery’s clients.
Laura Ingburg was there. Her page contained a bio and a link to thumbnails of at least twenty pieces available for purchase. Gen surfed the canvases and came away with the same conclusion she’d reached while she was down the coast. Laura was an exceptional artist.
She went back to the bio.
Laura Marie Ingburg was born in Carmel-by-the-sea, California, and attended college at nearby UC Santa Cruz. She spent a year in Paris studying at the Louvre on an exchange program, but soon hurried back to the Pacific coast where she was raised.
Ms. Ingburg’s mother was an award-winning local painter, well-known for her unique Impressionist style. Laura followed in her mother’s footsteps, creating art that reflects a use of color and shadow that has gained national attention from investors and critics alike.
Odd that she hadn’t left Carmel again. Not even to attend an art show or meet a gallery owner somewhere else who wanted to sell her work? That seemed so limiting.
She plugged the name Laura Ingburg into Google and was rewarded with a massive number of hits. She narrowed the field by adding the words artist and Carmel, CA. A few pages of newspaper and magazine articles came up.
Laura Ingburg, noted plein-air artist based in Carmel, awarded this or that prize. A day in the life of Laura Ingburg. The Stoddard Gallery hosts a show for Miss Laura Ingburg. Laura Ingburg teaches here or there. Laura Ingburg spearheads a movement for artists to donate a percentage of their profits to local conservation efforts.
Yada yada yada.
Gen had almost given up reading accolades and was about to close the window when a headline nine pages into the search results caught her eye. She scrolled down and clicked on it. The link was ancient, an obscure back-page article that rehashed local mysteries over the years. A single line leaped out, quoted from a police report over twenty years old:
Local girl Laura Ingburg reported missing.
She copied the commentary, recorded the website address, and saved it in a Word doc on her desktop. Weren’t coincidences grand?
Then she moved on to Herman Jacovich.
Unlike Laura, there was little of note to be found about the gallery owner. Apparently he wasn’t involved in the community, did not speak or appear at events, and did not host fundraisers or pat children on the head and make nice with the press. He didn’t maintain social media accounts. His website bio was sparse on backstory.
What he did do with some regularity was provide quotes about the success of the artists he represented. That, of course, made him look noble. It also probably served to attract the attention of other artists who hoped he could make them successful, as well.
Nothing about his background, his credentials, or how he came to be doing what he did. For all intents and purposes, the guy had sprung full-grown from the sea and walked ashore with deep pockets to set up shop.
Nice work, Jack.
Next on the list was Gregory Prentiss.
Prentiss may as well have been dubbed “The Prince of Carmel.” That’s the way both locals and journalists spoke of him. In print, anyway, and a lot had been written. Visiting teacher, artist in residence, recipient of numerous awards and prizes and darling of art museums all over the U.S.
He toured with his work. He donated sums and set up grants for deserving young artists. In his younger days he took on apprentices, interns, and, from the looks of it, a couple of wives.
But as Gen searched, she realized that most of the literature concerning Prentiss was dated. The most recent photograph she could find showed him bent and approaching frail, with only a smile and a shock of thick white hair to commemorate his former charisma.
Gregory Prentiss was indeed getting old.
Yet Jacovich’s gallery displayed at least fifteen of Prentiss’s canvases. Gen couldn’t help but wonder how and why he kept his production so high. You’d think he would rest on his laurels and watch the ocean, instead of rendering it in oil day after day.
To each his own.
Gen rounded out her research with a scan of Monterey County property tax records and turned up a house in the village owned by Laura Ingburg, a three-acre waterfront estate held in a trust administered by Gregory Prentiss, and a smaller place outside the city limits owned by another Prentiss, this of the female persuasion. Sister? Cousin? Wife or ex, maybe.
She wondered if it mattered.
What she really wanted to learn was where his favorite haunts were on the cliffs outside Carmel. Gen typed out all the property addresses and printed the page, saved everything in a document file marked “Shannon Keene,” and turned off the computer.
Chapter Seventeen
Gen was about to head up to the condo when the office phone rang. She picked up the handset. “Genevieve Delacourt.”
“It’s Sophie. I remembered the name, it was the Jelicot Agency. It’s spelled j-e-l-i-c-o-t. The ‘t’ is s
ilent. Her first name was Edith. I’ve no idea if she’s still in business.”
“Good job.” Gen scribbled it on a sticky note. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“I hope it’s not a wild goose chase.”
“Look, chin up, Sophie. Just remember everything you can, because there’s no way to tell what might be vital.”
Sophie sounded almost cheerful. “I will,” she said. “Thanks.”
“I’ll call when I know more.”
Sophie said goodbye and hung up.
Gen pulled the laptop over, then booted up again and did a search for the agency. It was still in business, complete with a spiffy website and the requisite stills of gaunt, haunted-looking models.
The site displayed so many jutting cheek and pelvic bones Gen felt in danger of being jabbed in the eye. Her stomach rumbled in sympathy, and she struggled with the urge to order two dozen pizzas and have them delivered to every shoot in Manhattan. She wouldn’t want to get in the way of a group of those waifs when they smelled a slice of New York’s best.
She checked the time. It was ten-thirty, one-thirty in New York. People would be back from lunch. That made her laugh; clearly few in the beauty business allowed themselves the luxury of a pastrami sandwich. What a shame, all those lip-smacking hoagies off limits to an entire industry of people.
She dialed the Tribeca number.
The line was answered on the third ring.
“The Jelicot Agency.”
“Hi, my name is Genevieve Delacourt. I’d like to speak with Edith Jelicot, please.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jelicot is not available.”
“I see,” Gen replied. “Could you be more specific? Is she not available, as in not in the office today, or not available, as in on another line? Or maybe not available, as in no longer with us.”
The receptionist gave her the silent treatment just long enough for Gen to understand what was happening. When she did reply, her voice was icy. “May I have your name again?”
That’s right. Stuff those feelings deep down inside and do your job.
“Genevieve Delacourt. Want me to spell it?”
“What is your business with Mrs. Jelicot?”
“I’m a private investigator looking into the disappearance of a former client of the agency. The girl’s name was Shannon Keene.”
“Hold on.”
Paybacks are a bitch. The girl kept Gen waiting for a good five minutes, probably hoping she’d give up and go away. When she did come back on the line, she didn’t apologize.
“Mrs. Jelicot will return your call at a time that’s convenient for her. Your number?”
Gen rattled off her cell number and waited.
Nothing.
“Any idea when that will be?” she asked.
“No. Thank you for calling.” The receptionist hung up.
Wow. The height of genuine customer service.
* * *
She was upstairs, rooting through the fridge and thinking seriously about lunch, when a knock sounded on the front door. It was quickly followed by the squeak of hinges and footsteps across the foyer’s wood floor.
“Back here, Liv.”
Oliver came in behind her. “Hiya.”
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Sure. What’re you making?”
“Just grazing.”
“I’m in.”
Gen backed out of the refrigerator with a tub of Costco hummus and a bag of celery sticks. She twisted around to put them on the kitchen island and nearly dropped the whole load. Oliver was holding a gift-wrapped package that sported a handmade bow the size of a salad plate.
But it was his ensemble that shocked her.
He was wearing jeans and a peach-colored polo.
“You’ll catch flies with your mouth hanging open like that.” He propped the package out of harm’s way against the backsplash and got plates and glasses out of the cupboard.
“What is going on with you?” Gen demanded. She recovered and reached back into the cooler, then returned with containers of Greek salad and olives and feta and a quart bottle of sparkling water.
Oliver grabbed a bag of pita chips from a glass bowl, then pulled out a chair with his foot and sat. Gen rounded the island with a fistful of cutlery and slid into the barstool beside him.
“Give it up,” Gen said.
Oliver stood, retrieved the gift, and held it out.
“Thank you, but that’s not what I meant,” she replied. “What is it?”
“Open it and find out.”
Gen untied the bow and saved the ribbon aside, then made quick work of the gift wrap. Inside was Laura Ingburg’s black and white sketch of the woman and the ocean and the pines, the one Oliver bought in Carmel. He’d had it re-matted with a second layer, and now a line of red showed between the original matting and the cream of the paper.
He’d made the addition so the piece would match her bedroom, which they’d redecorated in brown and white and red. It had seemed the right thing to do to banish the memories of the room she and Ryan used to share.
It was hard to take her eyes off the beauty of it, but she managed. “I should say I can’t accept it because I know it was very expensive, but I won’t say that because I love it and I’ve coveted it since I saw it in Carmel.”
Oliver chuckled and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I bought it for you in the first place. When I saw your reaction, I knew I’d gotten it right.”
“Thank you, Oliver.” Gen leaned over and hugged him as tightly as their perch on the stools allowed. “I absolutely love it.”
“Gah,” he said. “Why so formal? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call me Oliver.”
She righted herself and admired the drawing again, then took it over to the counter where it had been. No way was she going to let it near the food. “Okay, now it’s your turn. What’s with the boy clothes?”
Oliver spooned hummus onto his plate and piled chips beside it. He bit into a celery stalk and took his time answering.
When she started to drum her nails on the counter, he swallowed and spoke.
“It’s run its course.”
Gen threw up her hands and gave him an expression that said he was not making sense.
“My alter ego,” he continued. “The women’s clothes, the makeup, the swishy walk, the pointed little pinkie when I drink tea. I’ve gotten it out of my system.”
“But why?”
Livvie rolled his eyes. “Do I have to have a reason? And anyway, I thought you’d be happy.”
“Why would I be happy? What does it have to do with me?” Her brows knit, thinking, then her eyes flew open and she stared him down. “You’re not doing this on my behalf, are you?”
“Don’t be silly.” His voice was strong and certain. “I’m doing it for me. I’ve decided to stop acting the gay princess and just be myself.”
“Is that possible? To stop, I mean?”
“I haven’t polled the entire San Francisco gay community,” Oliver replied, “but gee, I think it is. I can’t believe you said that. You want me to keep on being a caricature? I’m tired of being a cartoon. What if I told you I was disappointed you didn’t have hysterics when Ryan left, or that I thought you should talk more like a lawyer? Attorneys have a certain argot, you know, and you just don’t fit my picture.”
“How does that relate? Only someone who wanted to feel superior would spout courtroom jargon. And as for Ryan, that expectation makes me cry for strong, independent women everywhere. Are you telling me you expect me to act like a female stereotype? That’s offensive and disrespectful and–”
Gen took one look at Oliver’s exasperated grimace and understood. “Oh. I get it.” She reached for his hand. “What I meant was that I thought the heels and the purse and the makeup was you.”
“It was.”
“But.”
“But flamboyant doesn’t fit anymore. That was the me who needed to shout at the world that I was tired of hiding. It was the me w
ho needed to force my friends and family to see what I am. It was the pendulum swinging to the opposite of who I had to pretend to be while I was growing up.”
Gen gave his wrist a quick squeeze. “And now you’ve found your center?”
Oliver nodded. “I think so. I don’t think I need to scream it anymore. Now I just want to be a guy who also happens to be gay.”
“All right.” Gen popped an olive into her mouth and spoke as she chewed. “Can I have that pantsuit you wore to Fleur’s opening?”
“Sure. We’ll go through my closet.”
“Won’t you miss it?”
“Yeah.” Livvie sighed. “Boy clothes are boring. Women have huge wardrobe choices. Pants, skirts, dresses, leggings, tights. And that’s just for the bottom half. I’ll miss the diversity.”
“You can still dress up once in a while.”
“I will.”
“Don’t give it all away.”
“Not a chance.” He put his dish in the sink, then opened the freezer and lifted out a container of Ben and Jerry’s. “Dessert?”
“Are we celebrating?”
“Why not. I won’t miss wearing heels, I can tell you that much.”
“Then you’re on.”
“It’ll be different, won’t it?” Oliver dug a hunk of Cherry Garcia out of the carton and dropped it into a bowl. “Now I can dress in drag as a disguise when I’m working with you, instead of the other way around.”
“You’ll need to tweak your look a lot if you don’t want to be noticed. Tone it down. And add boobs. You never had boobs before.”
“I can do that.”
“Good, because I’d kinda miss the old Livvie if he-she went away forever.”
“Genny, I’m right here.”
“I know. Liv?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you.”
He paused with a spoon halfway to his mouth and smiled. “I know. I love you, too.”
Chapter Eighteen
Although Gen seldom thought the wheels turned quickly enough, the New York agent took her time returning the call. Eventually her cell rang, and Jelicot Agency showed in the display.
