by Dorien Grey
“Ah, you knew I was getting together with Cabrera and Guerdon today?”
“They said they were going to call you.”
“And they did. I just wanted to thank you for putting in a word for me. I know it was an imposition, and you went beyond the call of duty to do it.”
“It wasn’t that hard to convince them. From what I gather, they need all the help they can get, and as I told them, you do have more of an in with the people involved than they do.”
“Exactly the point I tried to make.”
“So, how did it go?”
“Okay, I guess. They listened to everything I had to say, asked a few questions, and that was that. I don’t know if anything I told them might help, or even if any of it was news to them, but at least I tried, and that’s all I wanted.”
“I’ll keep you posted if I hear anything,” Brad said.
After hanging up, Elliott went into the den to watch TV until it was time to go to bed. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but it seemed his head had barely hit the pillow before:
Something’s going on.
With Bruno? What?
I have no idea, and I can’t tell whether he even knows for sure himself. I can’t get anything at all specific. But whatever it is, it’s big.
Then how can he not know what it is?
You keep expecting things to make sense on your level. Sense and logic are the glue that hold the living’s world together. They don’t necessarily work the same way for those of us on this side. All I know is that, because of the timing, it must have something to do with today.
My meeting with Cabrera and Guerdon? Bruno knows about that?
I can’t be positive, but I’d suspect so. I get the impression he’s pretty much tuned in to you, which isn’t surprising, I suppose. He’s counting on you for help.
I wish I could give him more. But I can’t imagine what it might be. Is there any way at all you could find out what triggered this latest reaction?
Like I said, I don’t know if he knows himself. But I’ll keep trying.
Chapter 10
He met with his flooring subcontractor Thursday, who said he could get exactly what Elliott wanted, and that the flooring could start the next week. He also, during his lunch break, called Larry Fingerhood to tell him to start looking at potential properties for the next project.
By the end of the workday, the two offices were all but finished, with lighting fixtures, including a circle of small adjustable ceiling light spots around each of the center support posts, installed throughout the main floor. Elliott would buy the paint Monday, and they’d start painting Tuesday.
Steve called to ask whether Elliott would be going directly home from work.
“No, I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things. I’ll be here when you get home.”
“Good. I wanted to tell you about a call I got from Cessy last night.”
Elliott smiled. “Can’t wait to hear about it.”
*
They were walking to the door upstairs, having spent some time talking about the progress and the painting, when they saw Button coming from the direction of the el. He waved and hastened to join them.
“Amazing,” he said. “We live one floor apart, and we never see one another. How does that happen?”
Both Elliott and Steve grinned.
“Life’s strange,” Steve observed.
“Indeed, it is. Well, can I ask you two up for a drink now that we’ve finally run into one another?”
Exchanging a quick glance of confirmation with Steve, Elliott said, “Sure.”
“Normally, I run out to the Anvil for a drink after work—I know it’s miles and miles out of my way, but I am a creature of habit.”
As they took a seat, Elliott glanced around the apartment, noting that Paul’s comment about Button’s OCD seemed to have some merit. The place was immaculate.
Moving to the stereo, Button quickly ran his index finger across a long row of CDs and chose one. He slipped it into the player, and the opening notes of the Cabaret overture filled the room.
Smiling broadly, he said, “Nothing like a little Liza Minnelli after a long day’s work. Now, how about some champagne?”
“What’s the occasion?” Steve asked.
With a wide-eyed look of surprise, Button said, “Thursday,” and, excusing himself, went to the kitchen. Elliott and Steve looked at one another and grinned.
“I do hope you’ll be taking the paper off the windows downstairs soon,” Button called to them. “I’m dying to see what you’ve done with it.”
“We’ll be painting and putting in the new flooring next week,” Elliott replied, raising his voice so it would carry into the kitchen, “then we’ll have you down to look at it.”
A muffled pop! was followed by “I’d like that. Have you decided yet what you’re going to do with it?”
Elliott was a little surprised to realize they’d never told Button about the gallery.
“Steve’s going to open a gallery.”
“Eventually,” Steve hastened to add.
Button reentered the room with a large silver tray on which were a silver ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne, three crystal flutes, a plate of cocktail crackers, and a small crystal bowl of what appeared to be caviar.
“See?” he said, setting the tray on the glass-and-chrome coffee table, “I knew we had a reason to celebrate!” He poured the wine and handed Elliott and Steve theirs. “To success,” he said, raising his glass.
Steve and Elliott stood up for the clicking of the glasses. When they were reseated, Button took a sip then said, “A gallery! How wonderful! I can’t wait!”
“Do you have champagne and caviar every Thursday?” Steve asked, reaching for a cracker and the small spoon in the center of the bowl.
“Unfortunately, no, but I look for any excuse. I never drink champagne alone. One of my long-time customers is an importer, and he gives me a great price on both the champagne and the caviar. I give him a discount on his suits.” Taking another sip, he said, “So, have you heard anything new on who killed Bruno?”
Elliott took the spoon from Steve and moved forward to take a cracker.
“I know the police are still investigating. I’m sure they’ll find whoever was responsible.”
“Well, I certainly hope so. I still can’t grasp the idea that Bruno is dead, let alone that he was murdered!”
Recognizing an opportunity when he saw one, Elliott said, “Did Bruno mention having any specific difficulty with anyone before he died?”
Leaning to reach the coffee table, Button placed a small spoonful of caviar on a cracker.
“Other than the witches from Macbeth I’d mentioned before? Rudy, Cage, and ‘Sensei’ Blanton?”
“Yeah. And did he talk to you about his financial manager, Walter Means?”
“Other than he didn’t trust him farther than he could throw him? No, but that was a continuing theme. He did say you had offered to help him find another manager, and he was thinking seriously of taking you up on it.”
“You weren’t at the party the night he died, you said.”
“No. I do know Bruno was dreading it—he hated confrontation, which is one of the reasons people thought they could walk all over him. He said he was planning to have a private chat with those who had ‘borrowed’ money promising to pay it back and never did. And then he was going to make a general announcement that any future requests for money would have to go through his financial manager. He didn’t trust Means, but he figured Means should start earning his keep, and that turning the requests for money over to him would take some of the pressure off. He knew Means would automatically say no to any request.
“He originally told me he was inviting Clifford to the party for moral support, but when we talked the day before, he said he was going to talk to him, too, which puzzled me. When I asked him why, he said he’d given him a check a couple of days before, and that something had happened and he wanted his money back. Th
ough he didn’t say what the problem was, it must have been pretty serious, because I’d never known him to be even mildly upset with Clifford before.”
Button’s expression momentarily changed to one of sadness, and he stopped talking for a moment, staring into his glass. Then, as though he’d flipped a mental switch, his face brightened, and he lifted his head, smiling.
“So, enough of that. Tell me all about your plans for the gallery.”
“It’s Steve’s baby,” Elliott said, tossing the conversational ball to Steve, who was obviously a little hesitant to catch it.
“We haven’t made any detailed plans just yet, but I’m mulling a lot of things over in my head.”
“Well, I’m sure it will be absolutely wonderful, and I’ll insist all my friends come by with their checkbooks.”
They talked for another fifteen minutes, and then, declining Button’s offer to open another bottle of champagne, Steve and Elliott thanked him for his hospitality and headed downstairs.
“Shall we just run out to grab something for dinner?” Elliott asked. “I don’t want you to have to cook.”
“I don’t mind cooking. I think I’ve got some frozen enchiladas from that last batch I made a while ago. I’d almost forgotten about them, and they really should be used before long.”
“Who am I to argue with your enchiladas? Sounds good. Want me to run to the convenience store for some chips and salsa or anything else you might need?”
“Some beer, maybe. And sour cream, if they have any.”
“Done. See you in a minute.”
*
“Forget the gallery,” Elliott said, scooping a large dollop of sour cream onto his enchilada. “You should open a Mexican restaurant. I keep forgetting how good these are!”
“Well, maybe we could combine the two. A Mexican restaurant and an art gallery. Maybe knock a hole in the wall to the alley so we could have a drive-through.”
Returning from a trip to the refrigerator for two more beers, Elliott said, “So, you still sure on the colors?”
“Cream for the ceiling, burgundy for the walls. Yep. They’ll look great with the grey wall panels. Why? You having second thoughts?”
“No. I like the idea of carrying some of the exterior colors inside. I plan to pick the paint up during the day Monday, unless you want me to wait until you get home so you can go with me.”
“I trust you.”
“Good to know. So, what about your conversation with Cessy?”
“She called last night and asked if I might consider teaching a painting class. She said she’s always wanted to try painting and had a couple of friends she thought would also be interested.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told her I’d never really thought about it. I don’t know how qualified I am to be a teacher. I mean, painting’s so subjective.”
“Exactly. No textbooks, no grading, no lectures. All you’d be doing is sharing your enthusiasm for art and giving them some basic advice on different techniques and what works and what doesn’t, and why. And you’ve got all this space just sitting here until you’re ready to open.”
“Hmm. Well, on the one hand, it might be fun, and a good way to promote the gallery, especially when we’re first starting out. But there are always a ton of problems you never see until you’re too far in to back out.”
“That’s true with every business.”
“A good point. And this might at least bring in a little money. I still feel bad about your just sitting on this big, empty space without any money coming in.” He sighed. “The problem is that I don’t have nearly enough time to work on my own things—nothing at all to do with you, it’s just a fact of life.”
“I understand. But nothing has to be done this minute. Take some time to think it over. Cessy won’t be upset if you say no.”
“She already told you about this, didn’t she?”
“She mentioned she wanted to talk to you but didn’t want to bother you if I thought you wouldn’t be interested. I told her the only way to find out was to ask. She didn’t tell me she’d be calling the same night, before I had a chance to tell you.”
“A lot going on.”
“For sure. And I’ll be one happy camper when we put this Bruno thing behind us.”
“And so will Bruno, I’m sure.”
Realizing he hadn’t yet told Steve about his most recent talk with John, he said, “Speaking of Bruno…”
When he’d finished, Steve said, “Did you figure out what it was all about?”
“No. It has to be about something Cabrera, Guerdon, and I talked about during our meeting, but I’ve gone over and over it and can’t figure out what it could have been. I hope I might have given them a few things to think about, but if Bruno has some idea of what we’re doing—and John seems to think he does—nothing we said should have come as any great surprise. So, I honestly don’t know what set him off. But John’s sure that whatever it was is important.”
As he was lifting his beer to take a drink, Elliott detected the faint scent of Old Spice. He glanced at Steve, who said nothing but gave him a small smile and a raised eyebrow.
*
Though he was home by ten and went to bed shortly thereafter, Elliott not only couldn’t fall asleep but had no idea what was keeping him awake. He was still thinking about what could have caused Bruno’s most recent outburst, although no more intently than he had been since it occurred, and he’d had no problem getting to sleep on previous nights.
He lay there, trying to block out any thought that would set off a chain reaction of frets and conjectures, and—with equal lack of success—not to look at the clock every five minutes. He would begin to drift off only to be yanked back awake.
Finally, at 2:26 a.m., it occurred to him to see if the boredom of late-late-night TV might do the trick. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d awakened in the middle of the night to turn the TV on.
He began flipping through the channels, almost immediately bored. He was just about to give it up as an exercise in futility when a delayed reaction made him suddenly flip back to the channel he had just passed.
There, in front of a lectern and a banner proclaiming “Inner Peace Institute,” stood one Clifford Blanton, earnestly extolling the necessity and virtues of harmony between body and soul to a rapt group of apparently enthralled listeners. Elliott noticed that, as in most of the infomercials he had seen, the camera never used a wide angle when focusing on the audience, to give the impression it was considerably larger than it was.
Blanton? Doing an infomercial? Rudy had told him Blanton was trying to convince Bruno to back him in making some, but hadn’t mentioned Blanton was already on TV. He probably hadn’t been then, and Elliott immediately wondered where the money had come from, and when. He made a mental note of the station, and determined to call them to see just how long the program had been running.
He flipped off the TV and soon fell asleep.
*
He checked the Yellow Pages before leaving for work Friday morning, found the station’s phone number, and wrote it down. During the morning break, he called and asked to speak to the advertising manager.
“This is Alexia Reynolds. How can I help you?”
“I happened to catch a program on your channel this morning at two thirty—about the Inner Peace Institute. I was wondering how I might find earlier episodes, or if you’ll be doing reruns of previous shows.”
He heard the soft click of a computer keyboard, then, “It began airing two nights ago, but they’re scheduled to run regularly for the next three months. And I’m sure a contact number appears at the end of the program so you can reach the sponsor directly.”
“Ah, I must have missed it. Thank you. I’ll watch for it.”
*
He and Steve had earlier planned a dinner-out, movies-at-Elliott’s evening, so as soon as Steve got home Elliott told him about his discovery.
“Doesn’t that strike you as a littl
e odd?” Steve asked as they had a drink at his place before going for dinner.
“What’s that?”
“You never have trouble sleeping. And then for you to wake up at just the right time and turn on just the right channel—are you sure John didn’t tell you to do it?”
Elliott shook his head. “I didn’t go directly to the right channel. And no John. I never forget a conversation with him, and we didn’t have one last night. And there was no scent of Old Spice, if that was your next question.”
Steve grinned. “It was. So, how do you suppose…?”
Pausing to take a sip of his drink before answering, Elliott said, “I have no idea. And I’m not sure I want to know.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“I can call Guerdon and Cabrera and maybe suggest they take another look at Blanton’s finances. It’s possible he found another rich patron, but with all the effort he’d been putting into Bruno, it’s a little unlikely he could have come up with one this fast.
“First, though, I think I’ll give that real estate agent up in Wisconsin a call to see if the resort Blanton was trying to get Bruno to invest in is still on the market. Speaking of which, have you given any further thought to the painting class idea?”
“Yeah, though I haven’t come to any decision yet. So many things to consider. How many people would want to sign up? How would I advertise it? How much would I charge?
“And that set me off on a bunch of other things, like maybe I could buy a couple movable wall panels and put them up front when you take the paper off the windows, and display some of my paintings on them. But then I started looking at what’s available in movable panels, and they ain’t cheap.”
“Well, on that score, let me talk to Arnie and see if maybe we can figure out how to make them ourselves—at least temporary ones. I think it’s a great idea for you to put up some of your own work, maybe with a note on the window or door about how someone can reach you if they’re interested. And maybe you might want to give Ralph a call and kick some thoughts around with him.”
“Yeah, I could do that. Maybe we could have him over for dinner one night.”
“Sounds good.”
