“Do you want a podium?” I asked. “We have one in the storeroom.”
“No, I get too nervous standing behind something like that. I’ll just pace in front of my paintings here.”
“You look great.” She was dressed in an elegant black wool jacket with white western-style piping, a pair of starched black jeans, and what I knew had to be four-hundred-dollar boots. “Like the successful artist you are.”
“Thanks, but I still feel like an imposter. When I see a group of people gathered together like this waiting to hear me speak, I still have the strongest urge to join them, waiting for the ‘great artist’ to come out and give us incredible insights into her artistic vision. Then I realize it’s me they’re coming to hear and I want to head back to my cabin in the hills.”
“I guess it’s an unavoidable part of the game these days. People who love your work naturally want to meet you, see the person who brought them so much pleasure. You’ll dazzle them, and when prints are made of your paintings, they’ll fly off the shelves.”
“A mixed blessing for an artist,” she said ruefully, turning to inspect one of the paintings she had displayed. She straightened her spine and turned back to me. “Better hit the ladies’ room before I go on.” She headed back down the hall past my office.
“She enjoys it a lot more than she lets on,” Parker said softly.
I turned to look at Parker with surprise. I hadn’t even heard her walk up behind me. Was there an edge of bitterness in her voice, or was that just my imagination?
“Talking in front of groups is always hard,” I said diplomatically. “Especially when the subject is so personal.”
Parker shrugged, her brown eyes level and flat. When Greer came back into the room, Parker’s face softened into a smile, and I shook my head slightly, not certain about what I saw in her expression a minute ago. She and Greer were good friends ... or so I thought. Then again, I’d grown to understand how precarious friendships among artists could be. It was a difficult situation, your colleagues also being your competitors, especially in our media-obsessed world where your background and looks, whether they were manufactured or real, seemed to be almost as important as the work itself. Elvia’s visiting authors complained about it all the time. Could it be that same phenomenon was happening in the visual arts? If so, there was no doubt that Parker would have a problem with her shyness, her nondescript appearance, and her unexciting background.
After Greer’s presentation, which was amusing, lively, and informative, Parker gave a talk on her work. One-on-one, Parker’s gentle and sensitive nature was obvious and endearing, but before a crowd, her tone flattened and her enthusiasm became forced and artificial-sounding. It broke my heart when the audience started shuffling their programs and whispering among themselves. When she hurried through her finish, the bulk of the group gathered around Greer while I noticed Parker disappear down the hallway. I followed after her and found her in the back storage room, a small, stuffy enclosure that had only one small window high off the ground. She was leaning against the wall, staring at a stack of blank canvases.
I knocked on the doorframe to keep from startling her. “Are you all right?”
Two spots of powdery blush glared off her pale cheeks. Her eyes were red-rimmed and teary. She took a deep breath and swiped her hand across her left cheek to wipe away nonexistent tears. “I’m fine. Talking in front of groups just scares me. I’m sure I bored them silly.”
“No, you didn’t. You know people these days, their attention spans are about this long.” I held my thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“Thanks for the try, Benni, but I’m an artist, remember? Visual details are my life. I could see what was happening with those people. I’m just not good at explaining what I do or what I’m trying to do with my art. I’ve always felt that if I haven’t communicated my feelings in my paintings, then I’ve essentially failed as an artist. Why does the world insist on an artist explaining what she does? You know what Robert Frost told a person once who asked him what one of his poems meant? He said, ‘You want me to say it worse?’ That’s how I feel, that me talking about my art diminishes it somehow. Next to Greer, I look like a stupid thirteen-year-old.” She put her face in her hands in much the same way I remembered Shelby doing when she was agonizing over Kip’s infidelity. Love in its many forms causes the same kind of pain.
She lifted her head and blurted out, “It’s not fair. It’s so much easier for Greer. She grew up talking to people like that, learned how to charm them, play the game. And that’s what it’s become, a game. An idiotic game with the winner being whoever can turn herself into the most interesting personality.”
I shook my head dumbly, surprised at the intensity of Parker’s bottled-up anger. She’d kept it well hidden under her gentle exterior.
“Why do you think Greer got that showing?” she asked. “Or why she was featured in Rosettes magazine? All that great ranch history. So interesting to the readers. So authentic.” She spit out the last word.
“She is very talented,” I said in Greer’s defense.
“Yes, she is, but not any more than a lot of artists and less than some. But it’s also a lot easier to develop your talent when you don’t have to struggle to put boxed macaroni and cheese on the table. Not to mention being able to afford the best paints, brushes, canvases, and framing.” Her thin mouth bunched at the corners. “Both the people Roland featured in his gallery had advantages I’ll never have. I don’t care what anyone says—the best art doesn’t always get promoted. And without promotion, it doesn’t get seen. And if you don’t get seen, your career is dirt.”
I was speechless against her tirade, though a part of me was tempted to point out that, advantages or not, Shelby was dead. Parker certainly couldn’t envy that. But, on the other hand, I felt a deep compassion for Parker. It was similar, I guessed, to the way I felt these days when I attended a society event with Gabe. So many of the events involved people who were the upper crust of San Celina society, like Greer—old ranch families who owned spreads that were three times the size of my dad’s, in better locations and worth millions more dollars; and lawyers and doctors and politicians all with Vogue-perfect wives who had never mucked a stall or peeled a bushel of apples in their manicured lives. I always felt like there might be a clump of cow manure clinging to the heel of my not-often-worn high heels. I sometimes envied how easy life had probably been for many of them, how they didn’t have to worry about whether they could afford one more vet bill for a beloved horse whose frequent bouts with colic had cost me five times what I paid for him.
“I’m sorry,” I said, realizing that there was nothing much else I could say. All I had to offer her was a sympathetic ear.
Her expression suddenly switched, and she became the Parker I’d known before. Or thought I’d known. “I’m sorry for dumping on you like this, Benni. I know you have more than your own share of problems this week. And I sound like a horrible person, I know, especially when Greer’s been so nice to me. She’s loaned me money and fed me when I was literally starving. I can’t believe I just said what I did.” Tears welled up in her pale brown eyes.
“It’s all right,” I said. “You were just frustrated and nervous from having to speak in front of those people. Not everyone has a talent for that. It has nothing to do with your ability to paint, and people know that. Besides, think about it—most of the people who see and enjoy your work will never meet you. An artist’s work ultimately has to be judged on its own merit and not on the ability to market it. I truly believe that.”
Her bottom lip quivered as she gave a forced smile. A sheen of tears brightened her eyes. “You’re naive, Benni. You really believe that good will ultimately triumph. But it doesn’t always. Take my word.”
A few hours later, while eating lunch with Emory at Froggie’s Grill downtown, after swearing him to secrecy, I told him about my conversation with Parker. I took a bite out of my salsa-covered tri-tip sandwich.
“I
don’t think it’s naive believing that good will eventually win,” I said, taking a french fry and pointing it at him. “Geez, believing otherwise would make a person feel like killing herself.”
Emory took a bite of his Chinese-chicken salad and went right for the throat of the story as succinctly as the lead in one of his newspaper articles.
“Or someone else,” he said.
8
“SO, WHAT’S ON the agenda tonight?” Gabe asked, pulling off his jacket when he walked through the door at a little past five o‘clock.
“Ask the social chairperson,” Emory said, sipping a glass of iced tea.
I pointed at the opened datebook on our oak coffee table. “How quickly you forget. You are playing auctioneer tonight at the Forum. It benefits the Crime Victims’ fund. Tomorrow night there’s the crowning of Miss San Celina and the blessing of the animals down at the mission. Wednesday night is a dinner honoring our women artists at the mayor’s house.” I grimaced at that. Another event I’d have to dress up for. “Thursday night is farmer’s market, of course, with the chili cookoff and the results of the beard-growing contest.”
“Thank goodness,” Gabe said. “Then I can shave.”
I poked him playfully in the side. “Thursday night is also the night they announce the winner of the ‘Kiss the Pig’ contest. I hear from Maggie that your officers are even using their beer money to buy tickets.”
Emory laughed. “Get that video camera ready.”
Gabe replied, “If the police chief is sick, it’s customary for his wife to stand in. I feel a cold coming on.”
“In your dreams, pal,” I said. I glanced back down at the datebook. “Friday is the fashion show, which I managed to wiggle my way out of. Elvia’s in charge of that. I think you’re slated for the 1940s segment.”
Gabe nodded. “The clothes were delivered to the station today.”
Emory gave me a questioning look.
“It’s a fund-raiser for the Historical Society. People will be wearing fashions popular in San Celina County from the mid-1800s to present day. A lot of the clothes are from the collection displayed at the Historical Society. That’s the old library you used to go to when you were a kid.”
“The Carnegie one?” Emory asked.
“Yep, we’ll have to drop by so you can see the museum Dove and her friends run.” I glanced back down at the datebook. “On Saturday it’s the parade, the fiesta, and all its accompanying hullabaloo as well as the dedication of the new mission bell. The western dance and fiddling contest follows that evening. The cow plop contest happens on Saturday, too.” I flopped down on the couch. “And that’s just the stuff you’re involved with. During the day, I have Heritage walk tours and workshops, and then there’s the children’s carnival and Heritage costume contest and judging the junior crafts show and ...”
Gabe held up his hand. “I’ve heard enough. Just make me a list of where I’m supposed to be at what time, and I’ll be there.”
I smiled sweetly. “I’m your wife, not your secretary.”
“Point taken. I’ll tell Maggie to do it.”
I groaned. “I’ll do it, Friday. Leave the poor woman alone. She has enough to do keeping you organized at work.”
He winked at Emory. “Works every time.”
“Your arrogance knows no limits,” I grumbled.
We all agreed that Chinese food was the easiest way to go tonight and decided on The Golden Dragon across the street from the Forum.
At the restaurant, Emory brought up his visit at the Tribune .
“Not a bad little operation,” Emory said, sipping his green tea.
I stirred the ice in my Coke. “What a compliment coming from the star reporter of the world famous Bozwell, Arkansas, Courier-Tribune.”
“Don’t be petty, sweetcakes,” he said mildly, then nodded at Gabe. “I tip my hat to any man who can live with her mouth for any length of time.”
“Turn blue,” I said.
“Okay, you two,” Gabe said, taking the Kung Pao Chicken from me. “Settle down or you’ll be sent home without seeing the auction.”
I grinned at Emory. “He thinks that’s a punishment.”
“By the way,” Emory said, “heard something interesting from the crime beat reporter.”
Gabe continued eating, but his eyes grew wary. “That right?”
Emory nodded. “Heard that there’s some key evidence that the detectives found that might point toward someone specific.”
I stopped eating my Orange Chicken and looked at Gabe. “Is that true?” He didn’t answer.
Emory backed off when he saw the annoyance on Gabe’s face. “Sorry. Habit. They weren’t specific about the rumors, just vague innuendo.”
“It’s Kip,” I said. “I’ll bet a hundred bucks it’s Kip.”
“Not my investigation,” Gabe said sharply and glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get to the auction. They wanted me there fifteen minutes early.” He set his crumpled napkin next to his plate. “This one’s on you, Emory.”
“My pleasure,” Emory murmured, reaching inside his jacket for his wallet. We silently watched Gabe walk out of the restaurant.
“He’s a might peeved,” Emory said, pulling out his American Express card.
“Just that old territorial male thing,” I said. “I think he forgot that you’re a newspaper reporter. They’re not his favorite people.” I scooted closer to him in the U-shaped booth. “So, what’s the evidence?”
“I wasn’t lyin‘ when I said they were vague. They have a snitch in the sheriff’s department, but apparently this person is very concerned about keeping his or her job and didn’t give enough away to actually print anything.”
“I still think it’s Kip,” I said.
“Thinkin‘ don’t make it so.”
“Another piece of wisdom from the Arkansas oracle.”
“Just for that, I’m taking your fortune cookie,” he said, grabbing it out of my hand.
“Hey! Give that back. It’s my favorite part of the meal.”
He broke it open and read the fortune inside. His pushed his bottom lip out slightly and wrinkled his brow. “You know, Albenia Louise, these things are written so they can apply to just about anyone, but I believe I’m seein‘ some divine prophecy here.” He handed me the tiny slip of paper.
Someone close to you will need your help.
“Oh, geez,” I said, feeling a small pang in my chest.
THE FORUM, A huge Roman-style building with white columns and long windows, was constructed in the eighties, despite the protests from traditionalists whose goal was to keep San Celina true to its mission past. Nevertheless, it became the most popular place in town for civic and private parties simply because its roomy interior was clean, large, and well lit. Inside, almost every chair was taken, and people congregated around the back of the room at the wine-tasting tables set up by local wineries, a rapidly growing industry in San Celina County.
Emory and I stood surveying the boisterous crowd searching for a place to sit. Gabe was already in front, conferring with the Junior League president, a china doll-faced, spa-thin woman named Pamela Howell, who was married to a local physician. She playfully felt my husband’s left bicep and stood on tiptoe to whisper something in his ear. The Junior League was cosponsoring this event with the Historical Society, and she’d called our house numerous times to arrange the details with Gabe and inform him of what new item she’d talked a local merchant into donating. In her immaculate designer outfits, she was the epitome of a proper society wife and she somehow, with a word or slight eyebrow movement, always made me feel like a bull-calf in a roomful of stained-glass windows. Which pissed me off. And as usual, my feelings were about as subtle as an Hawaiian sunset.
“Don’t worry about her,” Emory whispered in my ear. “You could play ice hockey on that face. I bet she can’t even close her eyes they’ve been tucked so many times. She probably beats her servants and makes them eat store-brand peanut butter while s
he sucks down the gourmet stuff. And I recognize that glassy-eyed look—she’s a klepto if I ever saw one. Probably bulimic, too. I could investigate—do an expose.”
I laughed. “Her husband’s a very respected plastic surgeon, so I imagine she gets facelifts for half price.”
“Hope she donated all that excess skin to a worthy cause.”
I smiled at him gratefully. Emory gossiped more creatively than most women I knew. “I guess it’s small consolation. Her husband smokes cigars that would choke a horse, spits when he talks, and the type who’s always trying to body-hug other women. He’s kinda disgusting. No, make that really disgusting.”
“And you’re worried about impressing these people? Don’t worry. Your police officer knows the difference between caviar and fish eggs.”
“Hey, Benni, over here!” Olivia Contreras stood up and gestured at two seats next to her. I went over and laid my jacket over the two seats.
“Thanks, Olivia. I thought we might have to sit on the curb outside.”
Emory nodded hello at Olivia. “Y‘all want any wine?”
“You buying? I’ll take another chardonnay,” Olivia said, her voice slurring a bit. I shook my head no and sat down next to her, leaving the aisle seat open for Emory.
“Pretty great turnout, isn’t it?” she said. “I’ve been eyeing that Fence Rail quilt since Evangeline started it two months ago.” She pointed to a queen-sized quilt done in a medley of blues and purples.
“It is beautiful. I haven’t decided if I’m going to bid on anything yet. Do you have anything in the auction?”
“A couple of signed posters and a numbered seriograph of one of my cowboy portraits. The one I did of Bobby mending fence last year.”
“I know that one. It’s gorgeous. But then again, he’s gorgeous.”
She frowned and drained the wineglass in her hand. “Guess I wasn’t the only one who thought so.”
Dove in the Window Page 13
