by Paisley Ray
Inside the elevator, we soared up seven floors, and I started to think that the dryer-sheet promise of landing me in the clouds was true. Walking next to Clay made my feet feel airy. As we neared the end of the hallway, I willed Macy’s door to be shut. My Karma was off. Making matters worse, she blasted the B52’s, which provoked Francine to shout out, “Whiney white music,” and slam her door.
It was easy to talk about Clay and lust him from afar. In a dorm room, his close proximity made me nervous. I didn’t have the practice to seduce him. Instead, I concentrated on not frightening him away.
My work was cut out for me. In under a minute, Macy barged in, a wicked smile plastered across her face as she greeted Clay. I met her gaze and held it. We both knew she couldn’t help herself. She was a mischief addict, unfamiliar with the word--imposition. Settling into an armchair, she asked, “Where’s Katie Lee?”
I reminded her, “Lifeguard Certification with Bridget.”
She pinched a grin. “Oh yeah. When do they get back?”
“Nine-ish,” I said while mentally transmitting a different message, in case she tuned into my, “Exit your ass immediately,” radio wave.
Right out of the gate, she asked Clay, “Why did you date that redhead?”
A wave of fret pinched my stomach, and I wanted to strangle her. She was like a puppet master; as quickly as she’d orchestrated our meeting she was going to annihilate my chances with him. “Macy!”
“You know Sheila?” Clay asked.
Macy strummed her fingers on the chair arm. “Is that the psycho-bitch’s name?”
“That’s harsh,” Clay said.
“Soda?” I asked, hoping to change the discussion to Coke versus Pepsi.
Macy glided the clasp of her gold rope necklace to the back of her neck. “She and a flight of demons ambushed us at the Holiday Inn and during the snowstorm, she threatened Rachael with bodily harm for being near you.”
Clay’s mouth gaped. “Get out.”
I searched for words to make the awkwardness go away. Before I thought of anything, Clay spoke. “I met Sheila last year. We stayed in touch over the summer and started seeing each other in August. It didn’t go very far. She’s on the controlling side.”
A throaty gawf slipped out of my mouth.
Macy scoffed, “Really.”
“I tried to stay friendly when it ended, but Sheila wouldn’t stop calling. That kind of flattery has a short lifespan. She’s been stalking me most of the year.”
“Get a restraining order,” Macy said.
“Maybe I should’ve. It got to the point where I avoided going out. She’d turn up wherever I went.”
“Is she still stalking you?” I asked.
“Haven’t seen her for a month. Either she got the message or met someone else.”
Macy stood. “I should get back to studying. See you around.”
“You will,” he said.
Clay and I talked about classes, who we hung out with and his job at the infirmary. Over an hour had passed and I realized I’d left my laundry in the dryer. Sharing the dorm with five hundred girls taught me, never leave clothes in the machines. There wasn’t a freshman manual, so I’d learned the hard way. Laundry, wet or dry, can end up in a pile on the dirty basement floor. Select items can go missing from repeat offenders. If someone is vengeful, an entire load can end up on the front lawn, in a stairwell or might ride the elevator until it’s discovered. I grabbed my empty basket. “I need to check the dryer.”
He put a mint in his mouth. “I’ll walk you down.”
On the lobby floor, the elevator doors opened, and I was face-to-face with Francine. She her head tilted sideways, scanning her eyes past me; she preferred to drink in Clay.
“Hey Francine,” I said. “This is Clay.”
“Um hum,” she said, before meandering into the elevator.
Clay trekked down the flight of stairs to the basement behind me. When I shouted, “Still in the dryer,” he creased the corner of his eyes.
“Does some laundry elf rustle through your wet clothes and huck ‘em into the bushes?”
“Weird things happen in this dorm.”
The washing machines and electric dryers clicked and hummed. Clay lingered in the laundry room and sat on top of a dryer next to the one I opened and dug into. Electrodes sizzled inside of me, and one combusted when my arm brushed his. Straightening upright, I held a crumpled sheet and Clay helped me fold. “Rachael O’Brien,” he said, and paused. The sheet folds drew us inches in front of me. Draping his arm around my neck, Clay delivered a kiss. He had an uncanny talent to turn my brain off. It’s one thing to be infatuated with someone from afar. Clay’s lips were no fantasy. They changed the game and he had me flustered.
A dryer buzzed and voices came down the stairs. Clay asked, “Do you have plans this weekend?”
“Not yet.”
“Let’s do something Friday night.”
“What do you have in mind?”
He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Dinner, maybe a movie.”
I diagnosed myself with a serious case of infatuation flu. I knew the cure. Clay Sorenson was the medicine I’d been waiting for.
I BOUNCED INTO MY DORM ROOM and put the laundry basket down. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I didn’t know if I should tell anyone for fear of jinxing good juju, but couldn’t help myself.
Katie Lee smelled like pool chlorine and stood with a wet towel knotted around her waist. I blurted, “Clay asked me on a date!” Ten seconds passed, before Macy and Francine invited themselves in.
Macy offered me a cigarette. Francine and Katie Lee stood staring at me.
“O’Brien,” Macy said. “We’re here for a debriefing.”
Francine settled onto a desk chair. “Speak girl.”
I started at the beginning. “Clay walked in the lobby unannounced.”
“Nice.” Katie Lee said.
“Nice? I nearly crapped my pants. He caught me off-guard.” I motioned a hand around my face. “I’m dressed in end-of-the-day tattered. Being polite, I invited him to our room.”
“Of course you did,” Francine said.
“Everything would have gone smoothly if Macy hadn’t felt obliged to grill him about his relationship with She-Devil.”
“Someone has to look out for you,” Macy said. “In case you were wondering, I approve.”
“Where’s he from?” Francine asked.
“When are you going to see him again?” Macy asked.
“After he kissed me, he asked if I had plans this weekend.”
“Wait a minute. Back up. Back up,” Macy said. “He kissed you? Hello! Details!”
Francine stood, synchronizing a hand n’ hip shimmy. “Girl, you spent two hours with that boy. If all you got was a kiss, you need to work on your technique.”
“When are you going to sleep with him?” Macy asked.
Katie Lee pointed a hairbrush at me. “Make sure you protect yourself.”
I flopped to Katie Lee’s bed. “You people are gonna hex me.”
Macy moved next to me. “He’ll call.”
Since I’d returned from New Orleans, I kept the eye of Horus talisman in my pocket. I’d escaped Jack Ray, freaked-out, but unharmed and considered the trinket a good-luck charm. I traced over the etching, “Even if he calls, there’s the chance that things will go wrong.”
Katie Lee grabbed her shower bucket. “Who are you kidding? Nothing is going wrong here. It’s all going right.”
Our phone rang and I answered. “Hey Dad.” He normally called me on Sunday afternoons, and I wondered if he’d heard something from Mom or about the fakes.
Macy lowered her voice, and asked Katie Lee, “Did you give any mouth to mouth?”
“Not tonight. You would be interested to know that Bridget and I are the only girls in lifeguard certification.”
“Can I still sign up?” Macy asked.
“You could, but all the guys are in high school.”
Macy cri
nkled her nose and whispered, “That’s more up Raz’s alley.”
“Out,” I mouthed and motioned to the door.
Macy flashed a toothy smile, like a kid who didn’t want to obey before leaving with Francine and Katie Lee.
“Rachael,” Dad said. “We need to talk.”
“Is it Mom?”
“No, it’s not your mother, it’s Clementine Hunter. The curator of folk-art at the New Orleans Museum called me. One of the Clementine Hunters hanging on the wall is a fake.
“Which one?”
“Baptism. Someone from the FBI is going to contact you.”
NOTE TO SELF
Macy’s direct approach is wicked. She’s got nerve and her strikes are accurate. God, she makes me nervous.
At least my hunch about the Clementine Hunter was right. If I’d been wrong, I would’ve looked dufus and tattled in vain about New Orleans when I should’ve kept the lip zipped. Glad to be miles away from both the Rays.
37
Missing Masterpiece
Funny how when you’re a kid, holidays and birthdays take forever to roll around. I’d just gotten back from spring break and now Good Friday was weeks away. I met Clay on campus on Tuesdays and Thursdays after lunch for an hour. He worked at the infirmary nights and weekends, and it was the only time our schedules crossed paths. My plan to loose my virginity in a meet and greet kind of encounter had become complicated. I liked Clay a lot, and wanted him to like me too.
Midweek, my art history professor ended class early. Outside the lecture hall, the sun was shining brightly, and the temperature sweltered as if someone had left an oven door open. Student traffic on campus was sparse, and I glanced at my Swatch. Twenty til one. Bodies would surge out of buildings on the hour. I stopped at a vending machine near the bench where I’d meet Clay, and pondered Mr. Pibb versus Mountain Dew. I decided on Mr. Pibb, heavier on the cola flavor and less lollipop sweet. The can rattled down the chute. Before making a final clunk, a tall gentleman in jeans, a navy Polo and tweed jacket asked, “Rachael O’Brien?”
“Yes.”
Reaching his hand, he said, “Storm Cauldwell, FBI.”
“Jesus. Do you always show up unannounced?”
His sunburnt face gave him more of a ski enthusiast appearance than FBI. He flashed me his badge and asked, “Can you walk with me?”
“I’m meeting someone.”
Smiling, he indented a dimple on his chin. “It’ll just take a minute. Your friend can wait.”
Since he said it would be quick, I agreed. “How did you find me?”
“Against policy to tell you.”
“Really?”
He chortled. “I looked up your schedule and student Identification.”
Snapping my soda tab-top open, a fine mist spritzed out of the can. “They keep black and white copies of student I.D.’s?” Shit, the FBI had to know I carried a fake.
Storm nodded.
I estimated Storm to be mid-thirties and six feet tall. He walked with a long, purposeful stride, and I hustled to keep up with his pace. He wore Ray Bans and slicked his dirty blond hair with gel. “I’ve been assigned the case of the stolen Clementine Hunter. I’m coordinating the investigation with the New Orleans office, and the IRS to inquire about the business dealings of Jack Ray. I need your word that you’ll use discretion regarding our conversations.”
I agreed.
“Tell me about the trip to New Orleans.”
“You need to be more specific in your questioning.”
He grinned. “How did you meet Jack Ray?”
“At Pat O’Brien’s. He and a girl I vacationed with, Bridget Bodsworth, were sitting together. He showed me how to eat crawfish, and paid the tab.”
“You like crawfish?” Storm asked.
“I thought I might, but I don’t.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
“What else happened?”
“I got lost without money. I had Lucky Jack’s business card in my pocket and called him for a lift. He took me back to his gallery. Showed me two Clementine Hunter paintings. Wanted to know my opinion.”
“What was your opinion?”
“They were fakes.”
“Did you tell him?”
“No. He’s creepy. I told him he should get top dollar.”
Storm laughed and pulled out a small pad of paper. He started jotting down notes.
“Did you have a more personal relationship with Jacky Ray?”
“Please.”
“Did he make a pass at you?”
“Is that question pertinent to the case?”
Storm tilted his head and kept writing. “How did you know the paintings were fakes?”
“My dad owns a fine art restoration shop. He worked on the same painting for the New Orleans Museum of Art.” I paused and picked at a nail. “This is going to sound crazy but, I also saw that painting in a New Bern art gallery back in December. The New Orleans trip was sighting number three. That painting is reproducing.”
“You’re sure?”
I nodded.
“Do you have anything else?”
“I memorized three-quarters of Lucky Jack’s Rolodex, and borrowed an invoice that links him to New Bern.”
Storm shook his head. “If he’d caught you.”
“I know. Bad thoughts train tracked through my mind when I did it, but the coincidence is far-fetched. Who’d believe me? I needed proof.”
“Where do you have the information?”
“In my dorm.”
“I need you to give them to me.”
Students began to surge the campus. “Um yeah,” I said, looking at the time. “It’s just that I’m supposed to meet someone.”
Walking me back toward the vending machine, Storm said, “I need to get back to the office. Can I stop by Grogan tonight and pick them up?”
“Sure.”
Storm slipped a business card in my hand, nodded his head, and turned left while I navigated through the swarm of bodies to the bench where Clay waited.
“Who was that?” Clay asked.
“An art history aid. He’s going to look over some papers of mine.”
BEFORE THE SUN DISAPPEARED BRIGHT RAYS ambushed our dorm room, and I twisted the blind cord closed. Katie Lee was on the phone with her mom. Macy plunked herself on my bed. She dug in a baggie of dried fruit and nuts and picked the almonds out. Having one day off for a three-day Easter weekend wasn’t enough of a break to buy a plane ticket to go home. Since the dorms stayed open both Macy and I planned to stick around until Katie Lee hung up the phone. “Would y’all like to spend Easter in The Bern?”
Macy accepted the invite. I hesitated. Dad had told me to stay away from The Bern, and I didn’t relish bumping into Nash or Billy Ray. Since Storm asked me to zip my lip about the investigation, I couldn’t tell Katie Lee the truth. Guilt prickled inside me, and I struggled to concoct a believable excuse. “Let me check with Dad.”
They had spent eight months in tight quarters with me, and both knew I’d skirted around the permission umbrella for spring break. They also knew the last place I’d spend a holiday was in Canton, with Dad and his girlfriend Trudy. Macy cornered me and Katie Lee stood behind her. “Is there something going on that you haven’t told me?”
An FBI agent had been assigned the case. Knowing there was a case, trapped bubbles of nervous energy inside me. “Like I could hide anything from you two.”
Macy was onto to me, and if I hung around Grogan, I didn’t know if I could keep the secret. I grabbed my book satchel. “I need a book from the library. I’ll catch up around dinner.”
INSIDE THE LIBRARY BUILDING the cold recirculated air smelled bland, like wearing an all beige outfit. I veered beyond the double-doors that led to the checkout desk and followed an adjacent hallway into an adjoining room with cathedral ceilings. The college used the space to feature seasonal art exhibits. Dropping my satchel to the floor, I sat on a bench and stared
at contemporary black and white etchings by an unknown artist. I didn’t want to lie to Katie Lee and Macy, but what choice did I have?
“Rachael O’Brien,” a sturdy woman in frameless glasses from behind me said.
“Professor Schleck.”
“Rachael, I’d like to introduce you to the newly appointed curator of our campus gallery. Liz Stein. Rachael O’Brien.”
Liz’s flour complexion had a splatter of freckles. Dressed in a solid yellow, tailored Jackie O dress, she shook my hand. “Have you heard? We received a federal grant to add a new building, and acquire art for the university’s permanent collection?”
“I hadn’t told the class,” my professor said. “Has the funding been secured?”
“I expect everything to be finalized after Easter,” Liz said.
“Who are you acquiring?” I asked.
“Tentatively I’m negotiating, a Vermeer, a Rockwell, a Saatchi and some local southern works including Clementine Hunter.”
I must have turned shades of sickly when I heard Clementine Hunter. Professor Schleck wore a look of concern. “Rachael, are you okay?”
“Um, yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Fine.”
“It’s going to be fabulous,” Liz said. “North Carolina College is going to build a new wing onto the existing library to house the pieces acquired with the grant. We’ll work with other museums to borrow collections and collaborate on exhibitions.”
“Did I hear you say you were purchasing a Clementine Hunter?”
“Two,” Liz said. “If I can secure them. I’m working through a dealer in New Orleans.”
Professor Schleck beamed. “Clementine Hunter is still alive. She turned one-hundred this year.”
Liz smoothed the creases in her dress. “Her great granddaughter is a student. It would be fabulous tribute—to have southern artists work permanently featured at our gallery.”
My little voice inside my gut spoke loudly. Liz Stein was being swindled. Lucky Jack was a busy man to be selling North Carolina College an original Billy Ray rip-off. If Liz acquired the painting from Lucky’s Art Consortium, someone would eventually discover that she had purchased fakes, and she could kiss her job and any thoughts of an art career goodbye. Someone needed to expose Jack and Billy Ray before they skipped town to sip Mai Tai’s on some beach, with their dirty-money safe in a Cayman bank account.
