Perfect on Paper

by Janet Goss

  “The bitch who sells the vintage clothing?”

  I nodded. “Graciela—the dealer you just saw in there—came into the store one day, and Vivian just… went to town. Next thing I knew, I was Hannah.”

  “Extraordinary. And I’m impressed. The paintings really are quite charming.”

  “I appreciate your saying so. But is what I’m doing… legal?”

  Tom-Tom rose to his feet. “I’m famished. Let’s discuss it over paella.”

  Normally I loved going to dinner at El Quixote, but that evening I would have preferred to be stretched out on my bed digesting Hank’s revelation, not jammed into a banquette digesting paella. I laid out the details of my arrangement with Vivian while Tom-Tom listened intently.

  “A fifty percent commission is unconscionable,” he declared. “Although it does provide you with an added layer of protection.”

  “Protection?” The forkful of rice I’d just taken turned to Styrofoam in my mouth. “So I am committing a crime?”

  “That’s a bit of a gray area. The paintings are all the work of a single artist, so thankfully forgery’s not an issue. It’s just that the artist has very little in common with her official biography.” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “Honestly, that Graciela woman is a real rube. The first thing any reputable dealer would have done is establish provenance.”

  “How would they do that?” I asked, just as Hank was requesting a definition of the word.

  “Provenance is a way of authenticating a work of art,” Tom-Tom explained. “Which can be accomplished using a variety of methods. With the type of artists I tend to represent—long-dead ones—one would need to have a professional appraisal done by an expert if there was any question about a painting’s lineage.”

  “I get it,” Hank said. “But Hannah ain’t dead. What happens then?”

  “For a living artist, a personal encounter could suffice, and allegedly this New England picker Vivian dreamed up has regular contact with her. As long as your partner in crime sticks to her story—and why wouldn’t she, for half the take?—I can’t imagine your secret would be exposed.”

  Hank squeezed my arm. “See? You got nothing to worry about.”

  “Of course,” Tom-Tom continued, “should some intrepid dealer decide to make a trip to Maine in order to ferret out Hannah…”

  He stopped midsentence and slapped his forehead with the butt of his hand. “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?” Hank and I chorused.

  “Some intrepid dealer”—he pointed at his head with both index fingers—“just decided to feign a trip to Maine. Two Hannah sightings is twice the protection, especially when one of them comes from a professional with more than forty years in the business.”

  I was touched by Tom-Tom’s willingness to get involved, but I wasn’t convinced he was the right person for the job. His affluent clients were the type who purchased Rembrandts, not folk art. And if his machinations on my behalf were discovered, they wouldn’t be buying any art from him ever again. “Don’t you think you’re taking an awfully big risk with your reputation? What if something… happened?”

  “Then I’d retire. Air travel’s become so abysmal of late, I’ve been considering it, anyway. God, I miss the Concorde.” He covered my hand with his. “Honestly, Dana, Vivian’s taking advantage of you this way makes me so livid, I consider it my brotherly duty to stick my neck out. Give me your next couple of canvases and let me reach out to that gallery owner.”

  “Take him up on it,” Hank said. “You’ll double your money.”

  “But I can’t cut off Vivian entirely. If I stop giving her paintings to sell, she’ll expose me to Graciela in a heartbeat.”

  “Then at the very least, reduce her supply curve,” Tom-Tom instructed. “Now, what can you tell me about Hannah that only someone with an intimate knowledge of her work would be aware of?”

  I pondered the question while Hank poured another round of sangria. “I’ve got it. You know the hat series Graciela had on display? It was originally a grid of sixteen paintings. She’s one short.”

  “Is she aware of this?”

  “She was pretty disgruntled about not getting the entire set.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “It’s in my apartment.”

  Tom-Tom clapped his hands in delight.

  “Not so fast,” I cautioned. “I promised it to an old friend of mine.” Judging from the expression on his face, my half brother knew immediately which old friend I was referring to. “And don’t try to talk me into giving it to you, because that’s not going to happen.”

  “Then I hope you’re prepared to make a damn good copy.”

  “That was some night,” Hank said after we’d said our goodbyes to Tom-Tom and settled into the backseat of an eastbound cab. “I sure am glad your brother decided to help you out.”

  “I don’t know. I’d never forgive myself if he got into trouble over this.”

  He draped an arm across my shoulders. “I wouldn’t worry about him. That boy sure can talk. And there’s nothin’ folks like better than a good story.”

  Yeah, and I’m one of those folks, I thought, wincing at how readily I’d absorbed tales of Hank’s bucolic childhood—in the fertile crescent of Las Vegas, of all places—and blithely relegated his lack of contracting skills to the back burner of my mind. How much of what came out of his mouth was the truth?

  And couldn’t he at least have revealed his true identity before telling me he loved me? Or was that a lie, too?

  Oh god. Elinor Ann was going to have a field day.

  I had a million questions, but as the cab made a right onto Second Avenue, I realized I didn’t have the stamina for a lengthy cross-examination. I leaned forward and tapped on the plastic divider to get the driver’s attention. “It’s going to be two stops tonight,” I called out. “I need you to drop me off at Ninth Street.”

  I felt Hank’s body stiffen. “What’s wrong? I mean, I got a pretty good idea what’s wrong, but please give me a chance to explain why I done what I done, Dana. I didn’t hardly get started when your brother showed up in that stairwell tonight.”

  Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe he could explain. But Mr. Jefferson Davis Calhoun was just going to have to cool his heels until I got some rest.

  “I promise I’ll give you all the time you need,” I told him. “But right now I’m too overwhelmed to take in any more information.”

  “I reckon I can’t blame you. But you’ll call me after you get up?”

  “I’ll see you after I get up. I’ve got all those balusters to paint, don’t I?” I forced a smile.

  Finally he relaxed and leaned over to kiss me good night. “You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that.”

  Staggering up my front stoop, I knew I’d made the right decision. Everything could be put on hold until tomorrow.

  Well, almost everything.

  As soon as I unlocked the door to my apartment, I strode to the bedroom and removed the Victorian wedding gown from its featured spot on the front of my closet door. The last thing I needed to see upon opening my eyes in the morning was this trenchant reminder of my steadfast gullibility. I hung it on the inside rod and shut the door tight.

  There. Now all I had to do was crawl into bed with that extra Valium Tom-Tom had so thoughtfully provided.

  On second thought, perhaps it would be wise to put Elinor Ann on notice that an extended phone conversation was in her immediate future. It was just after eleven, much too late to call, so I turned on the computer and sent off an email. Then, even though I knew I shouldn’t, I gave my in-box a quick once-over.

  Billy Moody had finally had time to go over the alternative clues I’d supplied for his Sunday behemoth.

  Great job—loved (and used) about 80% of your suggestions, as you’ll discover when you open the attached final puzzle. “Pieholes” for TRAPS was particularly inspired.

  I’ll wait for you to look it over one last time b
efore I send it off. Really appreciate both your time and your inimitable way with clues.

  Can’t thank you enough (but I’d love to try).

  W.W.W.

  I clicked open the attachment, but as soon as the grid appeared on my monitor, I decided it was one more thing best dealt with in the light of day.

  Glad you’re glad, even though you’re as adept a cluemeister as you are a gridmeister, and you know it. I’ll give this my undivided attention in the morning, after I’ve recovered from the most harrowing evening in recent memory.

  My phone—the cell, not the landline—rang seconds later.

  Of course I knew who was calling. Of course I knew not to answer it.

  I flipped open the phone and held it to my ear.

  “Why don’t you come on over and tell your uncle Billy all about it?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MAKE ROOM FOR DADDY

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I told him.

  “That’s okay. I make house calls.”

  I should have known better than to email him. Billy was adorable and attentive and uncomplicated. And if I let him come over, I wouldn’t give Hannah or Hank or Jefferson Davis Calhoun another thought for the rest of the night—which was obviously what I wanted, because of course I’d known better than to email him.

  “Good,” he said.

  “What is?”

  “You haven’t uttered a word for the past two minutes. That means you’re struggling with your conscience. Give in.”

  God knows I wanted to. Just the sound of his breathing through the receiver was making certain parts of my body misbehave. “That wouldn’t be fair to anybody,” I said. “Least of all you.”

  “I don’t mind. Go ahead—use me.”

  The second Valium I’d taken was beginning to kick in, which wasn’t at all conducive to shoring up one’s resolve.

  “To be honest, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do right now than use you. But I’m trying to be a grown-up here.” For once.

  “Being a grown-up is overrated. Let me come over and remind you how much fun it is to be an adolescent.”

  “Stop,” I whimpered, my mountain of resolve quickly crumbling to molehill proportions. “It’s been a rough day. I really need you to back off.”

  “Then at least tell me what was so harrowing about your evening.”

  “I’d rather not get into that over the phone.”

  “Then it’s settled. I’ll be right over.”

  He’d already hung up by the time I shrieked, “You can’t!”

  Oh crap. Billy Moody would be right over.

  But wait a second. He couldn’t be right over. He didn’t know where I lived.

  Oh crap. Yes he did. I’d given him my coordinates of Ninth and Second in our first spate of email exchanges.

  But wait a second. My apartment was a few doors down from the corner. He’d never figure out which building was mine.

  Oh crap. Yes he would. Because on that fateful night we’d met for one drink, I’d mentioned I worked for the owner of the vintage clothing shop right downstairs from my apartment.

  Get a grip, I told myself. Just because Billy knows how to find you doesn’t mean you have to let him in—or even see him. Just turn off the light in the front room, get ready for bed, and by the time he shows up, the Valium will have lulled you off to safety.

  I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth, then put on a little loose powder and lip stain because…

  Ah. Because you never knew when there might be a fire, and no woman would want to find herself out on the street in the middle of the night looking her worst, would she?

  My cell phone rang just as I was getting into bed, but, according to plan, I let the call go straight to voice mail. I fluffed my pillows, switched off the light, and closed my eyes.

  But only until enough time had elapsed for me to retrieve the message.

  “I know you’re up there,” Billy said. “And if you don’t come down and talk to me in the next two minutes, I’m going to give you my best Stanley Kowalski impression until you do.”

  He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He—

  “Daaanaaaaa!”

  Oh crap.

  “Daaaaaanaaaaaa!!!”

  I jumped into a pair of jeans and raced down the stairs to discover Billy leaning against the mailboxes in the outside foyer. Grinning, he mouthed, What took you so long?

  I unlocked the front door and opened it just wide enough for us to converse without having to shout through the glass. But he was too fast for me. Instantly my back was against the door of my super’s apartment, and Billy was kissing me and kissing me and kissing me.…

  Until the super’s mangy little mongrel started yapping frantically and hurling its body against the other side of the door. We froze, eyes locked.

  “You are not invited upstairs,” I said.

  “Then come outside and sit with me on the stoop for a while. Tell me about this harrowing evening of yours.”

  The last thing in the world I wanted to do was discuss my harrowing evening. “Honestly, it’s not important. Besides, it’s twenty degrees out there.” I’d run downstairs too fast to grab a jacket.

  He opened his and cocooned me inside it, and my brain turned to pudding while I let him guide me out the door. We settled on the top step with me sitting between his legs, both of us snug in his coat. “See? Nice and warm.”

  Warm, my ass. It was hot as hell out there.

  He squeezed me tighter. “Comfortable?”

  My thighs were already going numb from the cold stone and my nose was beginning to run, but I’d have happily spent eternity nestled between Billy’s legs.

  Which was not at all what I was supposed to be thinking.

  I leaned forward and half turned to face him. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I think we have something. Call it chemistry if you like.”

  That we did. I’d felt his chemistry rubbing up against my leg back in the hallway, and it was showing no signs of abating.

  “Yeah, but—why me?”

  “I don’t know.… You get me. It’s like we’re on the same wavelength. I mean, look at how many of those clues you wrote wound up in my puzzle.”

  “I’m sure there are plenty of like-minded people at that crossword tournament you were telling me about. Including women born in the same decade as you.” Many of whom no doubt clamored, groupie-style, for the attention of W. W. W. Moody.

  He laughed. “You’ll change your mind when you compete this year and see the crowd.”

  “I don’t believe you. I bet you’re the Leif Garrett of the crossword set.”

  “Who’s Leif Garrett?”

  “See? I am too old for you!”

  “I’m kidding! His first name is a really common fill word. After a while you get sick of clueing it ‘Explorer Ericson.’ Which reminds me—you’re in for a surprise tomorrow.”

  “What kind of surprise?”

  “You’ll see, Miss Mayo.”

  The phone woke me the next morning. As I fumbled for it, I was astonished to discover the clock read eleven thirty.

  “Congratulations,” Ray Devine said when I picked up. “You’re famous.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m sorry—were you sleeping?”

  “Well, yeah, but I shouldn’t have been. Uh, what did you just say?”

  “Guess you haven’t seen the paper yet. You’re famous.”

  Both my pulse and my temples began to throb as I swung my legs onto the floor. “Hang on a second,” I said, nearly trampling Puny in my haste to open the front door and retrieve the Times from the doormat, where my early-rising upstairs neighbor always dropped it.

  “Second Arts section,” Ray said.

  I located it and yanked it from the stack, scattering the other sections across the kitchen floor. There, just below the fold, was a shot of Graciela’s booth. NEO-FAUVES, TRAMP ART, AND A NEW GRANDMA MOSES AT THE OUTSIDER ART FAIR, the headline read.

&n
bsp; “Oh shit.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll wait while you read it.”

  I scanned the article until I located the name “Hannah.” The salient aspects of her background were all there: Maine, tar paper shack, Cool Ranch Doritos.

  “I can’t believe you never told me about this, Dana.”

  “I guess I was just… hoping it would magically go away. Believe me—it wasn’t my idea.”

  “Sounds like a hell of a story. I can’t wait to hear all about it—and get that painting you promised me.”

  His painting. I still had to create the replacement for Tom-Tom. “As it turns out, I’m going to need a little time before I can hand it over. Do you think you could give me, say, one more week?”

  “Of course I can. How about we get together next Friday night? I’ll take you out for a long-overdue dinner.”

  “Oh no you won’t! If we’re finally going to see each other after all this time, then I want the reunion to take place in exactly the type of dive bar we used to frequent back in the day.”

  “Tradition—I like that.” He paused. “But you know, that might turn out to be impossible. I’m not sure there are any dive bars left in this town.”

  Ray had a point. Gentrification had wiped out Shandon’s up on Twenty-Third Street, George’s on East Seventh, far too many Blarney Stones to count…

  Ah. But there was one lone survivor. Billy had taken me there last week.

  “I know just the spot,” I said. “South side of Fourteenth, just east of Avenue B. I guarantee you’ll feel right at home.”

  “Then it’s a date.”

  “Eight o’clock?”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Well, it’s been twenty-one years,” I reminded him. “One more week shouldn’t make that much of a difference.”

  “Yeah, but—you know something? It does. I’ve missed you so much, Dana.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  I hung up the phone, remembering the last time we’d seen each other, when I’d somehow managed to break it off with him. So much had changed since…

  Since I’d been Lark and he’d been Sandro, I thought with a shudder. Thank god I occasionally did the right thing. Maybe I should try it more often.