Body Work

by Sara Paretsky

  The younger woman flushed, and said, “You have to take them off, even though they’re so beautiful, because it’s hard on the Artist’s skin if she sleeps in the paint.”

  “That’s Vesta on the stool.” The Artist didn’t pay any attention to Rivka’s interjection. “She’s a third-degree black belt.”

  “Did you bring her to protect you from overeager fans, or from Rodney?” I asked.

  “I think she was just trying to impress you,” Vesta said. “I’m not a bodyguard.”

  She sat easily on her stool, with a kind of confidence in her bearing that I’d seen in other experienced martial artists-no need to be aggressive in the world. I’d learned to fight the hard way, on the streets of South Chicago, and it made me too pugnacious, too willing to believe the worst in the people I met. Although someone like Rainier Cowles and his friends demanded that one think the worst. I asked the Body Artist if Nadia had ever talked about him.

  “I hardly knew her,” she said, her back still turned to me.

  Rivka said, “I thought you said she came to you because-”

  “Rivka, darling, don’t think so much. It will put wrinkles in your forehead.”

  The younger woman’s neck turned pink at the crude put-down. When the Artist realized Vesta and I were both looking at her in disapproval, she turned and kissed Rivka on the mouth.

  “I just mean,” the Artist added, “you must have misunderstood something I said.”

  “Why did Nadia seek you out?” I asked, as if the interruption hadn’t taken place.

  “She didn’t,” the Artist said. “Rivka mis-”

  “Girl, enough of the lies,” Vesta said. “Nadia is dead. Allie is dead. Who else is going to die?”

  “You knew Allie?” I asked. “Tell me about her.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” the Artist said. “We met at a music festival. She was deep in the closet, and wouldn’t see me back in Chicago because she was afraid someone would tell her parents. She’d only go to remote places, like festivals, to pick up women, and then she’d hop home like a frightened rabbit, back to mass, back to being a good hetero girl. End of story.”

  “Not quite. How did you find Nadia?”

  “Shoe’s on the other foot. Rivka, I’m freezing. Can you start cleaning and stop looking as if your dog just died?”

  Rivka flushed again and resumed her scrubbing, working on the Artist’s vertebrae with the intensity of a sailor sanding a ship’s deck.

  “How did Nadia find you?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. She never said. Just showed up and started painting her designs. I was surprised-it’s not very often that someone with actual ability paints me. I was even more surprised when she asked me about Allie.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I didn’t remember Allie’s name. That pissed off Nadia, but what was I supposed to do? Keep track of every fucked-up woman who crawled into bed with me? It got her more pissed off to know I hadn’t kept track of Allie. I didn’t know the woman was dead. It was like the whole world was supposed to worship at Alexandra Guaman’s shrine, and, when I didn’t, it made me a cold bitch in Nadia’s eyes.”

  In the mirror, I saw tears spilling down Rivka’s face. When she realized I was watching her, she started scouring even harder, which led the Artist to utter a sharp complaint. The Artist turned inside Rivka’s grip, took the sponge from her, and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

  “Take a break, Rivulet. It’s been a long, hard day. I’ll work on my front while you get yourself some juice or a glass of wine.”

  Rivka rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing paint across her face. She opened a small refrigerator tucked under a ledge and pulled out a bottled smoothie.

  Karen spread cream over her breasts and started removing Nadia’s face. “It’s almost like a metaphor for life, isn’t it. One minute you’re here, the next minute you’re not.” Her voice was toneless. It was impossible to tell if she had any strong feelings about Nadia or Rivka, or even herself.

  “Did she ever mention Rainier Cowles to you?”

  Vesta flipped the brushes she’d been playing with onto the counter and looked at me. “Who is Rainier Cowles?”

  “A lawyer,” I said. “He claims a special interest in the Guaman family. He may still be out front-he came here tonight with a tableful of corporate types. He said he wanted to examine the strip joint where his protégé’s daughter spent her last night.”

  “The Body Artist isn’t a stripper,” Rivka cried. “How could you say such a thing? And then to pretend you admired the angel-”

  “Whoa, there,” I interrupted. “I’m just reporting what he said, not my own beliefs.”

  “Vesta doesn’t need to be my bodyguard while I have Rivka,” the Artist said.

  The younger woman flushed again. Her slender neck, with little tendrils of hair curling from sweat, made her look as vulnerable as a daylily.

  Vesta had slipped out of the room during Rivka’s outcry. She came back in now to report that the house was still rocking. “I think your corporate guys are there. Near the back of the room, left side? Go take a look, Buckley. Maybe it’ll refresh your memory.”

  “I don’t need to refresh a memory I don’t have. If that’s why you came, Ms. Detective, I’m exhausted, and I’d like to finish paint removal so I can go to bed.” The Artist didn’t stop sponging her breasts while she spoke.

  “I’m tired, too, between the weather, and death, and people lying to me,” I said. “Tell me what Nadia told you about Chad Vishneski.”

  “She didn’t tell me anything,” the Artist said. “Rivka, finish my shoulders so I can put on a sweater. It’s freezing in here.”

  Rivka jumped up and began scouring the cypress branch and pomegranate away from the Artist’s shoulders. “Vesta, can’t you help? Can’t you see how she’s shivering?”

  “You’ve got her covered, or uncovered, Rivka,” said Vesta, “you’re doing fine.” She leaned against the counter and started fiddling with the brushes again.

  “Chad Vishneski,” I repeated. “Every time Nadia painted on the Artist here, Chad exploded. If all Nadia cared about was her sister, then I’m guessing Chad knew her sister, right?”

  “You’re the person making up the story.” The Body Artist put on a camisole and then pulled a heavy sweater over it. “Something about Nadia bothered him so much he shot her, and it could have been her cunt, since that’s what most guys see when they look at a woman.”

  “And so you display yours as a defiant statement: If that’s all you think I am, that’s what I’ll be?” I asked. “Nadia found you because you’d slept with Allie. But how did she learn about your affair?”

  “She never said, or, if she did, it was after I stopped listening to her.” The Artist slammed her palm against the dressing table. “She was more fucked up than her sister, if that’s what you want to know. She pretended she wanted to have sex with me, when obviously she was a virgin or at least not a dyke, and backed away into a corner when I started kissing her. And then she laid this heavy trip on me about her sister as if it was me, not God, who chose Allie’s sexuality.” The Artist pushed her straggling hair into a clip. “I told Nadia to go home and get a dildo and leave me alone, but she kept coming back to the club and doing her stupid painting. I am so bored by her and her hang-ups, and her crush on her sister, I can’t tell you how uninterested I am in all those girls.”

  “Right. Warm and fuzzy, you are safe from ever hearing that criticism from me.” I started to zip my coat. “What’s the story on Rodney? Why did Olympia insist that he draw his chicken scratchings, even tonight?”

  “You’ll have to ask Olympia. I don’t understand why she does anything.”

  “She’s in financial trouble, I gather?”

  “Not my problem.” The Artist took off her thong and put on a pair of conventional underpants, then pulled her jeans up over her legs, interrupting Rivka’s efforts to finish cleaning them. “If you’re having
fun, I hate to ask you to leave, because I am an entertainer and I like my audience to have a good time. But the evening is over.”

  “Talking to you is definitely my idea of a fun-filled evening, but I’ll let you go home.” I opened the dressing-room door, then turned back. “There is one last question. What did your mother call you when you were born?”

  The Artist had been buttoning her jeans, but her hands dropped to the side. She stood completely still, not speaking, until she realized her friends were staring at her with the same interest, or even astonishment, that I was showing.

  “I don’t remember that far back,” she finally drawled. “But, going on experience, she probably said, ‘Here comes Trouble.’”

  Rivka cackled in delight, but Vesta said, “Are you investigating Buckley? Why? Why, don’t you think Karen Buckley’s her real name?”

  “She was part of the situation that got Nadia Guaman murdered, and I’m having a hard time getting any real information, either about Nadia or the people she was involved with. So I’m digging. And for all the public exposure of herself, the Body Artist is surprisingly modest about her past. Which makes me wonder whether she had a past under a different name.”

  The Artist was listening to me, her lips curled in a sardonic smile. I’d been hoping to provoke a response, but whatever else she was, whoever else she was, she had schooled herself to reveal nothing.

  “So what if she did?” Vesta persisted. “People change their names for a hundred different reasons, and none of them are any of your business. Especially since the police arrested the guy who shot her.”

  “His parents don’t believe their son was the killer,” I said. “I agreed to investigate even though I didn’t see much reason to question the arrest, but Karen has made me realize that I was wrong. Chad Vishneski may well have been framed.”

  “She didn’t say any such thing,” Rivka cried. “She’s made you look pretty stupid all night.”

  “She brought Vesta along,” I explained. “Even after someone wired glass to her paintbrush, the Artist didn’t think she needed a black belt on hand. But now murder has happened for real, and she’s scared.”

  “It’s a natural reaction to murder,” Rivka protested. “I’m scared, too. It’s me who told her to bring Vesta.”

  “Nice try, Rivulet,” the Body Artist said, “but it was my idea to add Vesta to the entourage.”

  Vesta frowned. “Your entourage? Don’t put yourself on so high a pedestal you break your neck falling off, Buckley.”

  I left, but Vesta followed me into the hall to ask if I thought Karen’s life was in actual danger.

  I shook my head. “Right now, I’m so bewildered I don’t know which way to look let alone what I think. This is the first I heard of a connection between Nadia and the Artist, at least a connection through Nadia’s dead sister. Now I’m having to reorganize my ideas. Maybe Nadia was looking for everyone her sister slept with. Maybe she tracked down some prominent woman who didn’t want her sexuality coming to light. Maybe this unknown mystery woman murdered Allie, and then Nadia and all the fuss with Rodney and Chad and the Body Artist belongs to a completely different story, not the story of Nadia’s death.”

  Vesta’s face showed warmth, trouble, intelligent concern. “Karen lives a life of great secrecy. Even though she has to be the center of attention, she almost never says anything personal about her past. The most I’ve ever heard her say was that she ran away from home when she was a teenager, but I don’t even know where her home was. When Chad Vishneski first started acting up, I thought maybe he was part of her childhood, coming after Karen, but she says she never saw him before.”

  “And you believe her?”

  Vesta’s wide mouth twisted. “I don’t know if I believe her when she says there’s ice on the lake, but she’s a lonely scared girl under all that paint. I know she’s maddening-at least, she maddens me-but I still don’t want to see her get hurt.”

  “What about her relations with Alexandra Guaman? Do you think she genuinely forgot Alexandra’s name?”

  Vesta smiled sadly. “Buckley’s universe pretty much begins and ends with her own self. The affair was brief. It ended with Buckley being angry with Guaman for not being willing to come out of the closet. And it all happened a long time ago. In another place.”

  I smacked the wall in frustration. “Who else can I talk to? Who can tell me how Nadia Guaman found the Artist? Or what the two of them talked about or who else Alexandra might have slept with?”

  “Perhaps she’s confided in Rivka, but I wouldn’t think so. She guards herself very carefully.” Vesta turned back to the dressing room but paused, her hand on the doorknob. “If someone is really trying to hurt Karen, what should we do?”

  “Get a real bodyguard,” I said. “And, even so, she’s putting herself out in public. She’d be just about impossible to protect.”

  Vesta’s worried gaze followed me back up the corridor. As I made my way through the crowd to the main exit, I saw Olympia had joined Rainier Cowles and his friends. She had her head flung back, laughing at something they were saying, putting all her considerable energy into wooing the group. If she was in financial trouble, as the scrap of conversation I’d overheard before the show indicated, maybe she thought this quartet of wealth could rescue her from Rodney.

  I wondered again about Rodney’s codes. Billable hours, one of Cowles’s friends had suggested, but the numbers were too long for a single dollar transaction. Back before the lottery put the numbers racket out of business, I would have thought they had something to do with running numbers. Maybe it was something else just as simple. Although nothing around Olympia and Karen Buckley was simple.

  15 Clueless in Chicago

  Later, that January came back to me only as a blur of ice and darkness. Short nights trying to keep pace with people in the entertainment world, long days stumbling through snowdrifts with the dogs before blearing my sleep-deprived eyes in front of the computer. Every now and then, I’d connect with Jake Thibaut or Lotty and feel a moment of warmth and sanity, but all I really remember was my alarm calling me an hour before dawn to start the whole routine all over again.

  It had been almost one a.m. before I got to bed the night I saw Rainier Cowles at Club Gouge. When my radio woke me a scant five hours later, it was with the cheery report that we were in the middle of a new snowstorm. And it was seventeen degrees at the lakefront.

  If only I could have brought myself to stay married to Richard Yarborough, I could have huddled under the blankets in his Oak Brook mansion until the spring thaw. Of course, he would have wanted to huddle there with me, at least when he got back at midnight from entertaining his wallet-wielding clients. That thought got me to my feet and into the bathroom, surly but mobile.

  Murray Ryerson phoned just as I returned from floundering through the drifts with the dogs.

  “You lead an exciting life, Warshawski, but you’re too selfish to include your friends in your adventures.”

  “Yep, it’s a round of nonstop thrills. You want to walk the dogs for me? Eat dinner with Mr. Contreras?”

  “I take it back, I take it back,” he said hastily. “You’re not selfish; you’re noble. But you still could’ve called me after Nadia Guaman died. Now I’m picking up third-hand that the perp’s mom hired you.”

  Murray is an investigative reporter for the Herald-Star, which used to be a great newspaper until, like papers all over America, they began cutting staff and pages to keep Wall Street happy. These days, the paper looks more like My Weekly Reader than a serious daily.

  Murray is still a good reporter, but he has less and less incentive to keep digging since so many of his stories get killed. He has a TV gig through the Star’s Global Entertainment news channel, so I never worry about his starving to death, but he’s depressed a lot of the time and turns to me way too much for news.

  “Your sources are as lazy as you are these days, Murray.” I was too tired to be tactful. “A: Chad Vishneski is not
the perp. And B: It was his father who hired me.”

  “I know I’m late to the party, but I hear you held the dying woman outside a strip club. Doesn’t seem like your kind of venue.”

  “Go there yourself,” I said. “It’s a great show. I’m surprised you haven’t caught it yet.”

  “Truth is, I’ve been on vacation. Buenos Aires in January beats Chicago to hell. I got home last night and saw that the Girl Detective had been super-busy in my absence. Can I buy you a drink tonight and hear all about it?”

  “Golden Glow at eight, Murray, if you’ll do one little thing for me first.”

  “Not the dogs or the old man…”

  “You still have friends in the DMV and I don’t. If I give you a license plate, will you tell me who owns it?” I read off the number from the sedan that Rodney had driven last night.

  It was a relief to off-load even one of my chores. When I finished changing for work and went back outside, I wished I’d given him something more challenging, like cleaning off my car and shoveling a path for it. It took twenty minutes to dig it out, but there wasn’t an easy way to take public transit to Nadia Guaman’s apartment. And if Nadia had managed to track down her dead sister’s lovers, then I needed to go through her apartment to see who else she might have been targeting.

  Nadia had lived about a mile from my office. In the snow, it was a quiet neighborhood, but the telltale gang graffiti were present on the bus stops and overpasses.

  Nadia’s apartment was in a well-kept courtyard building on one of the side streets just north of North Avenue. People were leaving for work, and I didn’t have to stand on the sidewalk long before a woman emerged. She held the door for me, her eyes on the weather outside, not on the face of a stranger entering.

  In the entryway, away from the wind and blowing snow, the quiet fell on me like a blessing. I brushed the snow from my pant legs, stomped my feet clean, and climbed up to the third floor. Nadia had respectable locks but nothing out of the ordinary; even with my hands stiff from cold, I worked the tumblers in under ten minutes. I was lucky: I was just opening the door when a man came out of the apartment across the landing.