False Impressions

by Laura Caldwell

  I forwarded the email to him. I listened to his soft breathing as he took a minute to read it.

  “My guess is, it’s a woman,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “The whole ‘cut and stretched’ thing. It’s passive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If a guy had written this, he would have said, ‘I want to stretch you, and I am going to cut you. When men are feeling violent toward someone, particularly a woman, they decide what they would do. But this person is saying someone, maybe someone else, should cut her. They don’t talk about doing the action themselves. So I think it’s a woman.”

  “Any other reasons you think this might be authored by a woman?”

  “No. That’s all I got.”

  “That’s not much,” I said. I immediately regretted it. Vaughn always took things from me so personally it seemed.

  But not that time. “Sorry,” he said.

  “What do you think I should do from here?” I told him that I was waiting on data analysis of the email without mentioning Mayburn. I let him think this was all for a case I was working on at the law firm.

  “You’ve done good. So far,” Vaughn said. He mentioned a few other avenues to try.

  I told him I’d call him if we needed him. And I hung up, feeling bleak at the thought that I was pretty sure we would be calling Vaughn again, soon.

  25

  I’d promised my mom and Spence that I would come over to their house for a “late Sunday lunch,” which was Spence’s way of labeling an occasion that would invite the opening of wine.

  As I was walking up North Avenue toward the lake, I called Mayburn. I asked about his analysis of the email, and he told me that he was “ninety percent sure” that the “cut and stretched” email had been written by the same person as the comments under the Dudlin painting on Madeline’s website.

  I told him what Vaughn had said about suspecting the author of the email was a woman.

  “Could be.” A pause. “But since when do you ask Vaughn for help?”

  I passed by Wells Street, trying not to slip on some of the snow-turned-black-ice. “Do I sense professional jealousy there?”

  “No.” Mayburn sounded irritated. “What you sense is that I don’t like the guy because he was a douche to you. Remember that?”

  “Yeah,” I said, letting my own irritation show. “Yeah, I remember.” And with that reminder of the Vaughn of old, some really nasty anger flooded in. Damn, thought I got rid of that.

  “Hey, Lucy’s been telling me to say hi and that we need to get together,” Mayburn said.

  “I agree. Tell her ‘hi’ back.” I took a breath. “And really, I haven’t forgotten about the jackassery Vaughn has sown before. But I do think he can contribute to this case.”

  “Fine. Cool. Look,” Mayburn said, “on that front, my own analysis shows a probability that it’s a woman who wrote those emails. But that’s not conclusive. Still, we should ask Madeline about this, about any women she knows who she thinks could have done that.”

  “But it could be a man?” I asked, thinking of Syd and Jeremy.

  “Absolutely.”

  Mayburn also reported that the email address, from what he could tell, was registered under a bogus name and fake identifying information. Millions of people used the site anonymously, he said. And the company’s privacy policy was notoriously strict.

  I called Madeline on her cellphone and told her what we’d learned from Mayburn and Vaughn. I took a right onto State Street and headed toward my mother’s place.

  “A woman?” Madeline said, surprise in her voice.

  “That was just Vaughn’s opinion.” I explained Vaughn’s reasoning, and also told her about the odds, according to Mayburn, that it could be a woman.

  “Mayburn said his analytics aren’t definitive. No one’s are,” I said. “But I need you to think of any women in your life who might do something like write those comments and the email.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “There’s no one like that. Absolutely not. I mean, I don’t have lots of girlfriends, but I adore the ones I have. I’m not one of those women who says she can’t stand other women.”

  “I’m not, either.”

  We ran through a list of any women who had worked at Madeline’s gallery, or any outside contractors who might have spent enough time there to know the ins and outs.

  I reached the iron fence outside my mom’s elegant graystone at the corner of Goethe Street.

  I told Madeline I was going out with Jeremy that night, and that I would see her tomorrow. But the conversation weighed on me as I neared my mom’s house. I hoped very much, for Madeline’s sake, that she was right; that whoever was threatening her, whoever had forged her artwork, was not someone she considered a friend.

  26

  It felt good to be in my mother’s kitchen, tucked behind the bay window table, a soft lap blanket on my legs, sipping red wine and chatting with her.

  My brother, Charlie, a frequent guest and drop-in at the house, loped into the kitchen. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I said in return. I noticed that his hair was looking redder as he got older, as if he was in the autumn of his life.

  “Mom, is Cassandra coming over?” Charlie looked at my mother with a bit of a smirk. Without waiting for an answer, Charlie turned to me, “Did Mom tell you she’s setting Dad up with Cassandra?”

  I blinked at my brother. Then I blinked at my mom. “Wait. Did I just hear right? You’re…” I let my question fade, and then got my focus back. “You’re setting up your ex-husband with your best friend?” I heard my own incredulousness.

  My mother cast a stern look at Charlie, then back at me. “Is that strange? I mean, I can’t get a handle on the appropriateness of this situation. You know, I’m usually fairly adept at etiquette....”

  Charlie and I nodded in agreement. My mother was nothing if not the pillar of etiquette. And not in a haughty kind of way, but rather a she-was-made-like-that kind of way.

  “The fact is…” My mother looked around, apparently trying to determine the location of her current spouse. “Sometimes I really don’t know how to act when it comes to your father.” She looked at her watch. “Cassandra had said she may stop by after some shopping.” My mom looked at the two of us. “I feel okay about this set-up, but it occurs to me she might be a bit uneasy when it comes to you two.”

  We heard the sound of the garage door closing and my mother’s husband, Spence, hustled through the back door into the kitchen, shedding a coat. He was dressed in his usual uniform of a blue jacket and pressed khaki pants.

  Spence hated to miss any McNeil family gatherings. “Hello, hello,” he said, crossing the room to kiss my mother on the head. “What can I get you? What can I get you?” He looked around.

  “We have drinks already, darling,” my mother said.

  “Ah, some cheese and olives, then?” He took off his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves as he moved toward the refrigerator.

  “Ask Spence about it,” Charlie said, leaning on the counter, looking toward Spence. “Do you think it’s strange that Mom is setting Dad up with Cassandra?”

  Spence straightened from a bent position at the fridge. “Not at all! It’s a marvelous idea! Your father is entitled to love, just like anyone else.”

  It sounded like a bold line from a play and Spence had nearly delivered it that way, too.

  My mother looked at him, her expression adoring. “I agree,” she said.

  My mother stood to help Spence as we heard a voice calling from the foyer, “Hello? Vicky? The door was open…”

  “Cass! We’re in the kitchen!”

  I loved to see my mother act so casual.

  Cassandra Milton strode into the kitchen carrying a big shopping bag. She looked salon fresh and ten years younger than her actual age. “I got those bowls I told you about,” she was saying.

  She stopped short when she saw Charlie and me in the kitchen, then reg
ained her composure. “Charlie. Nice to see you awake and dressed for the day.” She chuckled. Charlie’s former laziness was a running joke to many of my mother and Spence’s friends. Charlie laughed, as well, taking everything in stride, as usual.

  “And you, Izzy,” Cassandra turned to me. “I saw you the other day through the window at Madeline Saga’s gallery. I knocked on the glass to get your attention, but you didn’t seem to hear me.”

  “You know Madeline?”

  “Oh, gosh, I’ve known her for years. Stan and I first bought a painting from her when she was in her old gallery space.” Cassandra’s husband, Stanford, had died six years ago. “We’ve been friendly since then. I see her sometimes at gallery events or restaurants. I occasionally still drop in to see what new works she’s gotten. I just adore her joy about art. But I have to be careful when I’m there. Her excitement is contagious, and half the time I go away with something I hadn’t intended to own at all.” She laughed at her own impetuousness.

  Cassandra turned to my mother and began regaling her with a tale about the bowls in her shopping bag. Charlie smiled at me and left the room.

  I remained sitting where I was, struck with the thought that Madeline’s love for art and her gallery put her in contact with so very many people. The net we used catch our thief, I realized, might have to get wider.

  27

  It had felt satisfying at first, typing in truthful words, letting frustrations out to the world—frustrations about Madeline. Hitting the send key with a satisfied thump of a forefinger, a surge of redemption.

  After years of hating the disjointed and unappreciated feelings that Madeline caused, the reason for those feelings had emerged. And it was this—Madeline Saga’s devotion to her art, her understanding of artists, was at such a level that no one else seemed to be able to achieve it, or even in many cases, to be aware that such a state existed.

  And so sending the comments and the emails—at first, it was gratifying. But when the understanding came in—that Madeline’s level couldn’t be achieved, that was when the true anger began.

  And that was when the worry started, the understanding that soon the words—words typed into a computer and sent over the internet—would no longer be strong enough to convey the hatred.

  You should be cut and stretched like a canvas. There had been pride in the phrasing of that, in the creativity still possessed.

  That pride wasn’t going to satisfy for long. But effort would be made. And hopefully, by letting the hatred float to the surface and allow it some air, maybe it would become easier to carry. Maybe it would become easier to bear.

  28

  Jeremy had arranged to meet me at Madeline’s gallery for our date. I was ready at least an hour early, so I spent a lot of time in the front part of the gallery, acting busy, but really just vacantly looking at the art, trying to figure out when I’d last gone on a real date, much less a second date.

  My former fiancé and I had met at a party, and we’d started right from then, as if we’d been waiting for each other. And Theo? Well, we met at a bar, and we started that very night in a different way. The point? No traditional dates with either of them.

  So I was slightly nervous, slightly giddy with excitement, when the front door chimed softly and in walked a woman.

  She blinked at me. “You’re not Madeline.”

  I laughed. “I’ve been trying, but I’ve got about five inches on her. You’re Amaya, right? I’m Izzy, Madeline’s assistant. I met you the other night at Toi.”

  The woman didn’t laugh in return.

  I walked toward her, hand outstretched.

  She nodded vaguely, gave my hand a limp shake.

  Madeline came into the front room. I heard her stop, say, “Oh, Amaya,” then the click of her heels toward us.

  The two women almost hugged, but their bodies didn’t touch except for vague pats on the back.

  “I wanted to see what was new,” Amaya said, gesturing with a tiny hand around the gallery.

  “Please,” Madeline said, nodding. “One of us will be with you in just a minute.”

  She drew me toward the back room. “Do you think you could show her around? I have some cataloguing to work on, and honestly—” she glanced toward Amaya “—she’s a bit much for me sometimes.”

  “Sure,” I said, excited to use the knowledge I’d acquired that didn’t have to do with shipping or packing the art.

  And as I spoke with Amaya, I found I knew more than I thought, had retained more. I was easily able to talk to her for the fifteen or so minutes she spent in the gallery. At first, she didn’t seem to be shopping for anything in particular, but I got her talking about the ice sculpture.

  I tried to draw her into more personal discussion, but she had little interest. And yet, I was interested in her reaction. It struck me that, if she knew I was a lawyer, she might have a different response to me than when she thought I was a twentysomething art assistant. She frequently glanced at the back as if for a glimpse of Madeline.

  When Amaya left and I went to the back room, I found Madeline musing over a sculpture, setting it on a pedestal and turning it around to view it in different lights. No catalogue activity in sight.

  “She’s gone?” Madeline asked.

  “Yes. Why didn’t you want to work with her?” I asked, thinking it was a bit rude.

  “We just don’t like each other.”

  “Well, she’s interested in the ice sculpture.”

  Madeline turned. “Really?” She raised her eyebrows. “It fits, I suppose. She has an icy personality.”

  She turned back, apparently lost in thought.

  Then the front door dinged again.

  My date had arrived.

  * * *

  “What do you think of it?” Jeremy gestured with his wineglass at a large painting of a woman.

  In it, the woman was on her knees, her buttocks in the air and, larger in scale than everything else on the canvas. The woman was looking behind herself, as if waiting.

  “Wow,” I said. Nice, Iz. Way to use that art lingo you’ve been learning. “It’s sexual.” And there ya go again.

  “Do you like that?” Jeremy asked.

  We were at a party at the Museum of Contemporary Art. It was part happy hour, part art opening, part concert.

  “Do I like the painting or do I like that it’s sexual?” I said, not taking my eyes off it.

  “Either,” he said.

  “In general, yes, I like that.”

  A pause. Then, “Wait, which one do you like?”

  I laughed and walked to the next piece, a block of blue sketched on a black canvas.

  Jeremy stood next to me at the blue painting. The crowd began to bump us from all sides—people pushing into different installation rooms, guests glutting the common space and the bar.

  “Want to go outside?” Jeremy said.

  “It’s the middle of winter.”

  “It’s pretty warm today.” It was true. January in Chicago, and yet our recent snow was starting to melt as the temperature rose. “Plus, they have the deck tented and there are heaters.” Jeremy gestured at the back door of the museum, and I saw a few people out there.

  “Let’s do it,” I said. The truth was, I wanted to be alone, or at least more alone, with Jeremy Breslin for two reasons. First, I wanted to find out more about his divorce—was it amicable or otherwise? The more I thought about it, the more I wondered—did he need the money enough, or hate his wife enough, to steal and forge their art?

  Second, I really, really wanted to kiss him again.

  Outside, Jeremy gallantly took off his brown velvet jacket and draped it over my shoulders. I liked that he hadn’t asked if I wanted it. As a Chicago girl, I’d been taught that I could withstand anything, weather-wise, so I tended to ignore offers of help when it came to temperature.

  I wore a purple dress—tight and sexy—also in velvet, and I felt even more sexy when the silky lining of Jeremy’s jacket hit my shoulders an
d my arms, already warmed by him.

  “So…” he said.

  “So…” We were each holding something to drink. We walked to the railing of the balcony, still under the warmth of the heat lamp.

  “How long have you been coming to this museum?” I asked. I didn’t want to admit it, but this was only my second time.

  “Since they started. The Fex is on the board.”

  “Is she here tonight?”

  “I doubt it. It’s not her scene anymore.”

  “What’s her scene?” I asked.

  “Getting as much of my money as she can.”

  Now we were talking. “I thought you guys were having a good divorce,” I said. “Splitting the second house and all that.”

  “I’m trying. I’m really trying.” Jeremy wore a blue button-down, striped delicately with white, and it fell slightly open at the neck as he leaned on the railing. I could see his skin was lightly tanned—a Christmas vacation in Mexico? “You know, in Illinois, when you divorce, you split anything you’ve acquired together.”

  I did know that, but I stayed silent.

  “We’ve been married since just out of college, so what we split is pretty much everything.” He looked down, staring deeply into his vodka drink. “It’s like we’re dividing our whole world.”

  Now I didn’t know what to say because of the emotion I sensed there.

  “I have this one friend,” Jeremy continued, “and he says that having a happy divorce—or as happy as one can be—is the biggest accomplishment of his entire life. He has a really successful company, he played college basketball, he’s on a bunch of boards in the city—and yet the thing he takes the most pride in, he says, is the amicability of their split. The kids are happy, he’s happy and so is his ex.”

  “Sounds good.” I took a sip of my red wine.

  “Right?” A sigh from Jeremy. “I swear I’m trying to do the same thing, but lately she just won’t have it. It seems like she keeps trying to piss me off.”

  “Why?”

  “Great question. I guess it’s money. But I can’t believe she’d treat me like this over money. I’ve paid for everything—for her life and mine and our kids’ for nearly twenty years, and now, suddenly, she wants it all.” He took another sip. “Or at least that’s what it feels like.”