by Angela Zeman
Chatter picked up in the small glade. The oak trees towering over them, newly filled out in their spring leaves, rustled and shimmered in the breeze from the nearby Long Island Sound. The setting sun lit the cottage behind them in soft gold. Harry leaned back in his chair, cradled the child with one arm, and sipped his wine. He looked more tense and unhappy than any man had a right to look, surrounded by love and good fortune.
Finally, he put his glass on the polished stump being used as a table. Reaching behind the little girl into his pocket, he pulled out a soft bag that made muted jingling noises. The little girl laughed in delight at the sound.
Everyone looked up and stopped talking.
Harry began, anxiety choking his words, “I can’t go into business with anybody. I’ve made a huge—I’ve done something terrible. Later tonight I’m going to confess to Margeurite. Christa, you can’t marry—”
Mrs. Risk calmly interrupted and pointed over her shoulder at her cottage. “Girls, see the nice black cat sitting in the window? She’s waiting for you to play with her.” The adults paused while the two children rushed to see the cat.
Then Mrs. Risk turned briskly to Harry. “A man of your intelligence—certainly you could find some way to adjust Margeurite’s…inventory in a less self-destructive manner. By the way. How did you accomplish the theft? She’s totally oblivious to their disappearance.”
Harry reddened. “About a month ago—”
Mrs. Risk interrupted again. “After our drink on Harrington’s dock?”
Harry nodded. “The next day. A young man came into the shop. His uncle had died and left him a coin collection.” He jiggled the bag again. “This is that collection. It’s extremely valuable, but he was more interested in stamps, so we traded.” He shrugged sheepishly. “I didn’t record the transaction.”
“Ah. And after a space of time for safety, the fire,” put in Mrs. Risk.
Harry nodded. “The fire. I burned some blank bits of paper. I told everybody they were the stamps which I’d really given the young man, to account for their disappearance. Then I kept—stole—the coins. When I made my flower pots, I made drainage holes in the bottoms slightly larger than the size of each coin. Then I bought some of that clay that air dries without firing. I pressed it on and around the coins in pretty designs, and fitted them into the holes. They just looked like decorative plugs.” He nodded, shamefaced, at Mrs. Risk. “To everybody except her.” He sneaked a look at Christa, who sat listening unperturbed. “I was desperate,” he finished miserably.
Rachel said firmly, “She’d been treating you like a slave all those years, and you were in love.”
“Yes. I—I didn’t think things through. Well, maybe I didn’t want to think. I guess I wanted a little revenge.”
Mrs. Risk examined the shattered man before her and smiled. “Your revenge certainly contained no sting for Margeurite. The insurance company reimbursed her for the stamps.”
He sunk even lower in his chair. “Yes. I didn’t think that through either. I cheated them most of all, and they didn’t even do anything to me.”
Christa rose, kissed him on top of the head, and sat down again. “If anyone can understand about anger and desperation, it’s me.”
Rachel shrugged. “Me, too.”
Aisa grinned. “It’s a common condition, young man. We’ve all been there. So how long will you need to straighten this all out?”
Harry gaped. “What?”
Mrs. Risk prodded. “How long will you need to manipulate things so that the stamps can reappear? The coins, too, of course. Will you need help with a plan?”
Christa leaned forward. “How about if he discovers a misplaced transaction invoice, or something like that? He could say that in the trauma of the fire, he forgot about making the deal. So he’ll ‘realize’ the stamps weren’t burned after all. He can reveal the young man’s name, who can confirm the trade. He can sneak the coins back into the shop easy, right? Then the insurance company can get their money back from Margeurite and she’ll have her coins back in inventory. That would work, wouldn’t it?”
“Christa!” Harry gasped. She laughed.
Mrs. Risk lifted her face to the breeze and sniffed. “Ah. I think our roast chicken beckons. Time to eat.”
When Harry and his new family finally left, Rachel studied Mrs. Risk and Aisa sitting half asleep in their chairs. The glade was lit by a three-quarter moon and all the greens and golds had turned to silver and grey.
“Look at you two sitting there,” she said crossly. “Like grandma and grandpa God.”
Aisa said, “He’s a good investment. Look how well he’s done for that woman over the years.”
“I don’t mean your money. I mean his crime.”
Mrs. Risk smiled, her eyes still shut. “Justice is fickle, seldom does it go where it ought. A little nudge here and there doesn’t hurt. Harry’s a good-hearted man. He needed a little straightening out, that’s all. His conscience would’ve torn him apart, ruining the rest of his life.” She opened her eyes and looked at Rachel. “Admit it. You’re as happy about this whole thing as we are.”
“Humph. Maybe. Well, seems to me real justice would be if Aunt Margeurite got some kind of payback for the way she treated him for so long.”
“Don’t be greedy, dear. Don’t forget the help she gave him when he needed it most.” Mrs. Risk again closed her eyes, but not before Rachel caught a certain gleam.
While Rachel washed dishes, she could be heard whistling. The next day, she asked Aisa what he meant by saying Harry was a good investment.
Soon after Harry and Christa’s June wedding in Mrs. Risk’s glade, Rachel called Mrs. Risk on the phone: “Remember what you said about justice being fickle? I just heard that Aunt Margeurite never told the insurance company about the stamps’ reappearance and the coin trade, can you beat that?”
“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Risk. “Cheating is such a bad habit.”
“And she would’ve gotten away with it, too, if somebody hadn’t anonymously tipped off the insurance adjuster. Rumor is, she’s up on charges of fraud!” Rachel crowed with laughter. “Do you think it’s true?”
“Count on me, dear. It’s true.”
THE WITCH AND THE PAINTER OF NUDES
STRUGGLING TO CONTROL his shaking hand, Reverend John Floyd pressed the phone buttons to dial a number. As the phone on the other end began to ring, a dusty old clock hanging on his living room wall struck eleven dolorous tones. He shivered at the sound. After seven rings, at the other end the receiver was picked up.
The reverend bellowed, “Where—is—your—client, Mr. Rigstone?”
“Heeeyy!” came an amiable drawl. “Is this the Reverend Floyd?”
“You know it is, you fool. Byron LeFarge. Your client…you always know where he is…pursuing his depraved…” Pain shot through his temples. He pressed trembling fingers to his forehead. “Get him. I want him here, now. Send him to me!”
“Oh, for sure. Don’t blow a gasket! About time you two sat down for a friendly talk. Clear the air. Are you at home?”
“Get him!”
“I will! Whew! You won’t be sorry. Reaching out a hand like you are, it’s a fine Christian thing—”
The reverend let the receiver drop into place. Slowly he turned to contemplate his wife’s motionless body sprawled at his feet. He waited for Byron LeFarge to come.
Mrs. Risk, a lean-figured, tall, dark-haired woman of a certain age, nervously but erroneously regarded (because of certain lifestyle irregularities) by her fellow villagers in Wyndham-by-the-Sea to be a ‘witch,’ replaced her own phone receiver a few minutes later. She gazed thoughtfully through her screen door at her two guests, the LeFarge brothers—Allyn and Byron. They were outside with her friend and young protégé, Rachel.
The twin brothers were also her friends. Both were notable artists who lived, like Mrs. Risk, among the hills bordering Long Island Sound near Wyndham-by-the-Sea. Allyn LeFarge was painting a life-size portrait of a recli
ning Rachel, who intended to use the likeness as an advertising trademark to be hung in her flower shop in the village.
Mrs. Risk left her cottage to carry the phone message to the artist brothers, her strides stirring the gauzy folds of her black dress. It was another blazing summer day, but the surrounding trees and the breeze from the nearby Sound buffered the glade from the worst of the heat.
Rachel stretched and yawned on her perch atop an improvised dais, dislodging several of the discreetly arranged flora. She felt the heat least of any of them, since she was naked. Mrs. Risk had wondered aloud what the villagers would think she was selling by advertising with such a portrait, but abandoned her point when Rachel predictably ignored the question.
As Mrs. Risk approached the group, Allyn spoke. “Jeez, Rachel, don’t stretch like that, it blows my concentration. Here, it’s been two hours, anyway…break time.” Allyn laid down his brush and threw her a light cotton kimono.
Byron sighed euphorically from where he reclined on a lawn chair and said, “Yes, I’m exhausted just watching you breathe. Cover up for a while, angel pie, give us a break.” He sipped his lemonade.
Rachel giggled and wrapped the robe around her lush figure, tossing her dark curls to catch the breeze.
“Byron, your agent just called,” said Mrs. Risk. “He said to tell you that somebody named Reverend Floyd wants a meeting with you, and you must go to the reverend’s house immediately. He gave me directions. One of those condos near the golf course. Not far. You can finish Rachel’s portrait after your errand.”
Byron and Allyn stared at each other, fear reflected in eyes so identical that each could’ve been staring into a mirror, rather than at a brother.
“She told him,” said Byron to Allyn.
“I told you she would,” said Allyn, despair pulling his voice up into a wail. “She isn’t the type to say she would and then wouldn’t. She hasn’t the brains to understand the ruin she’ll bring on us.”
“And on the head of that troublemaking husband of hers, too,” added Byron.
“What’s this?” asked Rachel.
Allyn groaned. “Oh, two weeks ago, I took on a commission—posing as Byron, as usual. A young blonde wanted a nude portrait of herself as a birthday present for her husband. All I knew was her first name—Zella—and that she had the most lovely rich curves. How could I refuse? I decided on a full five by three canvas.”
“Stop salivating and get to the point,” Byron said testily.
“Yes. Well, turned out she was—ah—‘intellectually challenged,’ shall we say? Nice woman, sweet nature and all that. But by her last sitting her prattle drove me crazy, so I turned on the television to keep her entertained and quiet.” He sighed as he paused. “And there he was, being interviewed on the 12 o’clock news. Our chronic nemesis, the Reverend Floyd. He was pumping out Sodom and Gomorrah references, howling about ‘immorality in the arts.’ And as usual he meant me. Or rather, Byron. This time his target was the upcoming show of my latest nudes, painted in Byron’s name, of course. She watched the whole interview, fascinated. The reverend called poor Byron nasty names, said he was a canker in the career of his distinguished brother—meaning me—” He turned to his brother. “I’m so sorry, Byron. I’ve never understood why people think I’m so blasted distinguished.” He shook his head mournfully.
“As I’ve told you at least twice a day since we made our deal: who gives a terwhit? I lift not a finger, yet I get all the fame. Every female I meet competes for my attention, hoping I’ll want to paint her. The dancing, the parties—” He sighed. “I’ve never had so much fun in my life! You even share the profits, which aren’t bad, by the way. Frankly, I think you’re crazy to pay me, I should pay you.”
Byron shot his sleek designer cuffs, and examined his meeker, more rustically dressed brother. “I even look more artsy than you. You dress like a bus driver.”
Allyn smiled fondly at his brother, then his smile drooped. “Anyway, when she saw him on the tube, she squealed and bounced all over the dais, pointing him out as her beloved husband. I would’ve run for it, if I hadn’t been so stunned.”
Byron nodded. “The man’s a lunatic. He pickets our shows, writes horrible letters to critics and to television talk show hosts. He once tried to drag me into court, on obscenity charges. And Allyn paints such gorgeous ladies, too. If they were ugly, then he should protest, in my opinion.”
Allyn groaned. “Maybe he’s cranky from lack of sleep. I mean, with such a treat waiting for him at home—lucky man,” he finished wistfully.
“You most definitely should marry, Allyn,” put in Mrs. Risk disapprovingly.
“I’ve tried, heaven knows I have. But this art business. Why critics insist that my used paint rags stapled to canvas are ‘a genius of understated commentary on modern tensions…’ what drivel. I just did those things for fun!” He shook his head. “Crazy.”
Rachel frowned. “And you can’t paint the nudes under your own name because…?”
Allyn flashed Rachel a weak smile. “My agent says now that I’m considered a serious artist, it’ll ruin my image if people discover I also paint crass, commercial stuff like these nudes. Even if I don’t understand his reasoning, I do what he says. He’s been right about everything else.
“Anyway. Zella promised that as soon as she gave her husband the portrait, she’d change his mind about me. I’d treated her like a lady, she said, and there was nothing bad about showing off the bodies God gave women. Her breasts quivered from her zeal to enlighten her husband, so indignant she was. Quite impressive breasts.” He smiled, remembering.
Mrs. Risk said, “Your nudes are exquisite. I shouldn’t wonder if someday those silly rags will be forgotten and your nudes celebrated.”
“They’ll probably be worth a fortune after he’s dead,” put in Rachel cheerily. Both brothers turned wounded looks her way.
Mrs. Risk asked, “What does your agent say about your approaching ruin? I presume you informed him about Zella.”
Byron huffed. “Are you kidding? Allyn wouldn’t make a move without consulting Hal. Harold Rigstone, very smart. Hal told Allyn to sit tight, he’d take care of everything. He says the Rev’s got as much to lose as us. Making us an issue has put the Rev’s face on the map, or rather in the news. It’s financially lucrative for him, Hal says. And when it comes to making money, Hal knows more than anybody. Positively ravenous. He also says if there’s something the public can’t stomach, it’s a hypocritical holier-than-thou finger-pointer. And as an owner of an original Byron LeFarge, how can he point fingers now?”
Allyn shifted uneasily. “Well, I don’t know if we should criticize. Maybe it’s an occupational requirement of his job—being a preacher.”
Byron smirked. “Maybe. Hal loves the Rev. Says he’s gotten us better publicity than we could’ve bought.”
Mrs. Risk said, “Aren’t you just postponing the inevitable? People are sure to discover someday that Allyn’s the one really painting the nudes.”
Byron gave Mrs. Risk a look of boyish injury. “Hah. We’re interchangeable. Even our mother can’t pick which is who without us telling her.”
Rachel laughed. “The way you look now? Forget it. You two look like a bowling ball and a bowling pin!”
The rotund Byron bit the lip that was an exact replica of his much slimmer brother’s. “It’s all those society dinners. I can’t resist.”
“We know.” Allyn sighed. “If Zella spots Byron’s excess flesh in a society page photo, she’ll figure it out. Even with her IQ. I’ve been after Byron to diet.”
Byron rubbed his belly and moaned. “I’ve been meaning to. Soon.”
“You should’ve waited until he’d reduced before taking on any more commissions, Allyn,” said Mrs. Risk sternly.
“Of course you’re right. But she was such a delicious morsel…”
“Shallow pig. All you think about is how a woman’s body looks,” Rachel said indignantly.
Allyn looked taken aba
ck. “I’m an artist. It’s my business to care how things look.”
Mrs. Risk stacked empty lemonade glasses on a tray. “Well, sounds like you’d both better get to Reverend Floyd’s house without further delay,” she said absently.
She happened to glance at the brothers as she turned, with laden tray, towards her house. She stopped.
Two moist pairs of eyes drooped before her, heavy with mute pleading.
Rachel giggled.
Mrs. Risk groaned. “I suppose I could accompany you.”
Joy transported them until she snapped, “Hold the gratitude. You may find you have little reason for it.”
Rachel shrugged out of the kimono and reclined again on the dais. “I’ll wait here until you get back.”
Minutes later they found themselves huddled just inside a front door, confronting a sunken-eyed Reverend Floyd. His gaunt old body swayed over his wife’s body.
“My God,” whispered Byron.
Distended ligaments distorted the Reverend Floyd’s neck as he ranted, “Whoremonger! Purveyor to base appetites! Vengeance, I will have vengeance—” He faltered as Mrs. Risk’s presence registered.
“Have you called the police?” she asked him gently.
“Vengeance is mine—!”
“—saith the Lord, not you, Reverend Floyd. Please. Call the police. You’ve probably already destroyed evidence just by admitting us to this room.”
Reverend Floyd waved away the idea. “It was you!” he thundered, pointing at the chubby Byron, who had entered first. Byron shuffled hastily backwards, ducking behind Mrs. Risk and trampling his brother’s toes.
Allyn leaned back against the front door for support, which pushed it closed.
“You think Byron killed her?” asked Mrs. Risk.
“He was here!”
She twisted and lifted an eyebrow at Byron, who gave her a quick negative shake of the head. She turned back to the reverend, but before she could speak, he interrupted.
“See that—that painting?” Revulsion twisted his mouth as he pointed. “Our condo is too small to hide something that size, I would’ve seen it. So he brought it here after I left this morning to play golf. He was here.”
