If It Bleeds

by Linda L. Richards

  TWELVE

  I got back to my car, saw Itani’s envelope sitting on the seat and had another thought.

  “Mom, before I bounce,” I said, back inside the house, “will you just take a quick look at this? See if you know what it is?”

  “Sure, dear,” she said. If she was curious, she kept it to herself. “I’ll have a go.”

  I pulled the photo out of its envelope. She didn’t hesitate. “Why, it’s an ice pick,” she said.

  “An ice pick?” I repeated. “What’s that? For mountaineering or something?”

  “Oh no. Not at all. It’s a kitchen tool. From long ago. They’ve not been in use in this country for a hundred years, I’d imagine. But I saw them at home when I was a lass.”

  “Used for…” I prompted.

  “Chipping at ice, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “No, truly. For making the block of ice fit in the coldbox, before there was such a thing as an electric fridge. Or for knocking a bit off for a drink and so on.”

  “You mean, like, in an icebox?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So it’s a kitchen tool, you said?”

  “I did.”

  Somehow, that made sense.

  THIRTEEN

  My maternal grandmother, long since departed, had what some call “the sight.” I thought about that as I drove west along Broadway.

  Granny Auden was, as my mom liked to say, “a wee bit funny.” Which isn’t to say she had a sense of humor. She did not. But she saw things in a different way.

  When I was a kid, I used to wish that Granny’s talent or gift would somehow rub off on me. But though I gave it serious thought and even a bit of practice, none of Granny Auden’s witchiness was ever mine. I was ordinary. Average even then.

  My mother though. That was a different story. She was not wildly psychic. Mom’s was a more gentle gift. She got feelings. Hunches. Like just now, when she’d looked into my eyes and told me to be careful. It wasn’t like the warning another mother might give—a general warning against life’s hidden dangers. Experience told me it was best to pay attention.

  I found myself heading for the gallery. It was unlikely I’d find anything there, but I needed a starting point. And I couldn’t think of a better place than at the beginning.

  When he saw me, Sam’s face lit up. “Why, if it isn’t Nicole at Night! In the day, no less.” He ushered me in. “What brings you to my humble place of business?”

  The gallery looked different in the daylight. Smaller, somehow, without a crush of people filling it. Steve Marsh’s show was still hung. As I looked around, I saw a lot of red dots.

  “Everything is sold?” I said.

  “It’s sad, but yes, death will do that for an artist. The phone has been ringing off the hook all day. Suddenly everyone wants to get in.” His hands fluttered helplessly. “And in this case, even more so, I think. It was so…dramatic, wasn’t it? Him dying in the alley like that. It will be the talk of the town all month.”

  I made a mental note. As his dealer, Sam would have had something to gain from Marsh’s death. Something financial. I looked the small man over carefully and decided that as far as suspects went, Sam wasn’t much of one.

  “But you haven’t told me,” he continued, “what brings you here today.”

  “I’m investigating the story,” I said, trying to convince even myself. “The story of Steve Marsh’s death.”

  “Oh.” That hand again. “Oh, I see. I thought…that is to say…”

  “You thought I only did the society pages.”

  “Well, I guess. But also, a reporter from your paper was here first thing this morning. He gave me the impression he was covering the story.”

  “We both kind of are.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, yet it was. I was covering the story. Brent just didn’t know it yet. Nor did the city editor. But don’t bother me with details. “We have…different perspectives.”

  I could see that Sam bought this. The inner workings of a newspaper are mysterious enough to most people that I didn’t expect a lot of questions.

  “In that case, I’ll do everything I can to help. Of course. Steve Marsh was a very special client of mine. I just don’t know what I can tell you that I didn’t already tell Mr. Hartigan.”

  “That’s okay. You can tell me the same stuff you told him. Sometimes, in the retelling, new details come to light. You said Steve was a special client. Let’s start with that.”

  “Well, I discovered him.” Sam thought for a second before continuing. “That’s saying too much. He’d been painting for years before he tried to get representation. But when he showed me his work”—Sam put a hand to his collarbone, made that fluttering motion—“I just swooned.” He led me over to the largest painting in the gallery. It was hung right in the center of the big space, on a wall suspended from the ceiling. Even last night, amid the crowd, I’d noticed both the piece and the pride of place.

  The painting was huge. The background was bold, all angry reds and glaring greens. Slightly to the left of center was a young man, painted as though by a classical master. Dressed in torn jeans, a bandanna wrapped around his head. Unposed. He stood facing the artist boldly, as though he might spring from the canvas and punch anyone who got in his way. On one level, it was a portrait. But somehow, it was so much more. I said as much to Sam.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “That’s it exactly, isn’t it? Another artist could make this painting and it would be ordinary. But”—Sam shook his head sadly—“Steve saw the beauty in this. He saw it and incorporated everything one could see. And perhaps everything that couldn’t be seen.”

  This confused me. “How can you paint what you can’t see?”

  “That’s the very essence of art, I think,” he said. “Anyone can paint what anyone can see. But to paint in a way that makes you feel something? That’s mastery.”

  I looked at the title of the painting. “Eldert?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said again. “Isn’t it wonderful? Just Eldert. So in a sense, it is just a painting of this young man. And yet…”

  “Who is he?” I asked. “Who is Eldert?”

  Sam looked at me, surprised. “You don’t know much about this artist then?”

  I shook my head.

  He went over to a rack at the side of the gallery and pulled out a brochure. I wasn’t surprised to see that Eldert had been chosen to adorn the cover. It was a powerful work. “Here, you can read this. It’ll explain Steve’s work and, in a sense, the man.”

  “Thanks. Can I take this?”

  Sam nodded.

  I tucked it into my bag. “Did you know Steve’s girlfriend? Caitlen Benton-Harris?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve met her on many occasions.” It was possibly my imagination, but I thought I saw a moue of distaste.

  “Did you see her here last night?” I asked.

  Sam pondered for a moment. “Now that you mention it,” he said finally, “I didn’t. Hmmmm…that’s odd.”

  By the time Caitlen had arrived, Steve was dead and Sam was occupied elsewhere.

  “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t. She’d show up with Steve sometimes. I don’t have a number for her. I had no reason to call her.”

  “Of course. What does she do?” I asked. “Where does she work?”

  “She’s an artist too. She once asked me to represent her.”

  “And you wouldn’t?”

  “No. Not then. The work was too raw,” he explained, “too unfinished. I told her to come back when she had some more miles on her. Honestly, though? I was being kind. I didn’t see anything that made me think she had what it takes.”

  “And what does it take?” I asked.

  “Well, a lot of things, really. But one thing is key. Talent.”

  “You’re saying she lacked talent?”

  “It sounds harsh, I suppose. But yes. I guess that’s it all right.”

 
“And Steve had that?”

  “Talent? Oh yes! Steve did. And so much more. You never met him?”

  I shook my head, trying not to think of the dead man in his car. That didn’t count.

  “Steve was…well, he was extraordinary. I don’t know how else to say it.”

  There was something in Sam’s face. Or a shadow of something.

  “You guys were close?”

  “Oh no. Not really.” Sam shrugged. “I was his dealer. That is a special relationship in its own right.”

  “You said his paintings are selling well now. Better than when he was alive?”

  “As I said, that can be what happens when an artist dies. And when that happens? Well, people line up for opportunity, don’t they?”

  FOURTEEN

  On my way back to the office, I thought about what I knew so far. While the ice-pick thing was huge, I’d promised Itani I wouldn’t use it for three days. That meant that in three days I’d have an exclusive on the ice pick. This was a byline there was no way Brent was going to wrangle from me. But I didn’t think one story would be enough. I needed to make such a splash and impact that I’d secure a position in the newsroom once a spot opened.

  Brent was already on the elevator when I got in at the parking level.

  “Well, well,” he said with a little smirk, “here’s our talented gossip columnist. And tell me, please, what will Nicole be up to on this night?”

  No word on my absent byline, my stolen opening paragraph. Nothing at all, really, beyond the patronizing emptiness I’d always gotten from him.

  I groped for an answer that would stop him in his tracks, shut him up and remove the smirk from his face as though by a kick from my pointy-toed shoe to his groin. I couldn’t think of anything.

  When the elevator doors opened for him, I gave up. I felt the defeat through my whole body. He got off the elevator and I’d barely looked at him. As the doors closed, I heard him call out sweetly, “Have a nice day, Nicole.”

  I stood for a moment in the empty elevator, my heart pounding. He’d put me in my place without ever lifting his voice. We’d had some kind of contest. He had won.

  “Prick,” I said, just as I had the night before. I retreated to my cubicle with a fearsome relief. This was home, I told myself. This was safe. As I sat at my desk, I fingered the neat stacks of invitations. I looked at the corkboard where I’d pinned up a couple of choice photos and some nice memories. “Nicole at Night” was mine. No one would contest me for it, no one would take it away. I was good at it, I told myself. And the parties were fun. There were aspects of the job that I really loved.

  The food was great. Event food all the time. Canapés and caviar and cheese and tiny wontons served on delicate spoons… my grocery bill was next to nothing, just eggs and bread and Earl Grey tea.

  The notoriety. That was fun. It was like I was famous, though in a small enough dose that it wasn’t irritating. My drycleaner gave me special treatment, rushed my stuff right through. At the market, the occasional checkout girl would recognize me from my picture in the paper and be gently flustered and admiring. The best part of fame. Not so much that you needed to watch your steps or that people asked for your autograph over dinner. Just enough that people were nice to you when they realized who you were. That was pleasant. I’d gotten used to a world that was nice to me.

  All those things were good, and I was safe. Why would anyone want anything else? As I thought these things, I realized something. Brent was a master manipulator. The impossible-to-get quote. The illusive interview. The access behind closed doors. Not all reporters have this gift, but some do. It explained how he could he make me feel so small with a word and a glance. I pulled myself up and felt as though I was adding steel to my spine. I felt mad and determined and yet serene. I knew what I wanted. And I knew how to get it.

  I pushed aside my self-doubt and reached for the phone.

  FIFTEEN

  “Good afternoon, Giggling Gourmet,”

  a chipper voice said on the other end of the line. “This is Terese. Can I help you?”

  “Hey, Terese, this is Nicole Charles from the Vancouver Post. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

  “Hi, Nicole!” It was a gush. Caterers are among those who always recognize me. They’re probably big readers, scouring my column daily looking for mentions of them or their food. “I would love to talk to you, but it’s mad here today. We’re getting ready for an event in under an hour and there’s a lot to do. Can it hold until tomorrow—no, scratch that.” She didn’t even let me answer. “We’ve got a lunch and two evening events. The best thing might be for you to drop by in person. We’re always busy, but we can blab while we work.” She rattled off an address near Granville Island, then hung up before I could respond.

  I did a final check of my email, adjusted my schedule and headed out the door.

  Giggling Gourmet operated out of a brightly painted reclaimed brick building near the public market. I pushed the bright orange door open on a lime-green reception area with a purple ceiling. A rug in front of the empty reception desk was the color of milk chocolate. A lamp was a vibrant lilac that cast a purplish glow over the yellow walls. But not the ceiling, of course, since that was purple already.

  Industry awards were hung on the wall, so despite the goofy name, Giggling Gourmet knew what it was about. If I stood very still and listened very hard, I could hear it. Giggling. If that wasn’t enough of an invitation, the wonderful food smells were. I followed the sounds and smells to the kitchen.

  As goofy as the reception area and the name were, the kitchen was all business. Surgically clean stainless steel from bottom to top. Half a dozen young women were involved in various stages of food prep. And, of course, giggling. The giggling died when they noticed me standing there. And then: “Nicole!” It was a chorus from three of the six voices. I guess I’ll never get any closer to feeling like a pop star.

  Wiping hands on aprons, they mobbed me. And I guess in their world, I was a celebrity. I was someone who had the power to make a good business better. If only I would slide a word in here, a photo there. You couldn’t buy the kind of advertising I could dole out with a single nod. That’s a big responsibility. I don’t take it lightly.

  I saw a tall blond with long legs and a delicate pot belly under a smeared apron wipe her hands harder than the others, then extend one of them to me.

  “Hi, Nicole,” she said, smiling. “I’m Terese. We spoke on the phone.” And then, “Back to it, ladies. The food for the Zimmerman batmitzvah isn’t going to walk there on its own.”

  At her words, the little crowd dispersed throughout the kitchen, but none of them were out of earshot. Terese led me over to the station where she’d been working. A vat of tasty-looking chicken in a cream sauce stood next to pastry casings.

  “I really have to finish this vol-au-vent,” she explained. “But we can talk. We talk all the time.”

  “We do,” chimed in the girl working nearest us, a half dozen piercings in her left ear. “We talk nonstop!” She was chopping madly—carrots, onions, celery—and dropping bits into a huge pot while she talked.

  “On the phone, you said you had questions,” Terese said, expertly stuffing the pastry shells.

  “I’m covering the death of Steve Marsh,” I explained. I was the gossip columnist. I understood the question in her look. I decided not to reply to it.

  “I spoke with someone from the paper this morning. Buzz somebody.”

  “Brent?” I asked. “Brent Hartigan?”

  “I think so,” she said. “I didn’t have much time for him. We were getting ready for a lunch thing.”

  “On the phone,” I said. It wasn’t a question. She would have made time if she’d seen him. Probably wouldn’t have forgotten his name either. Brent is that hot.

  “Right,” she said, still stuffing. “I’m sorry, but there wasn’t anything to tell him. I was there the whole time—”

  “So was I,” a voice chime
d in behind me.

  “Me too,” said another from across the room.

  “—but I didn’t see anything.”

  “We couldn’t, could we?” said someone across the room. I looked over at a faunlike girl who didn’t look big enough to manage the Dutch oven she was moving across the room. “A lot of people. A big-deal event.”

  Terese nodded agreement. “Big, big deal. We’ve done bigger parties, of course. But they pulled all the stops.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Terese shrugged over her work. “I don’t know. I don’t ask those kind of questions. Just make the food.”

  “And cash the checks,” said earrings girl, madly chopping.

  “I think it was his grandfather.” This was the faunlike girl, now finished moving her Dutch oven and carefully stirring her brew on the stove.

  “His grandfather?” I said.

  “Well, isn’t he rich and famous?”

  I nodded. Shrugged. I hadn’t thought about the fact that Marsh’s family might have been paying for some of his gallery activities. But it was worth thinking about.

  Terese nodded. “You know, I think Ann might be right. I mean, we’ve been super busy, and I hadn’t really stopped to think of anything but work.”

  “And work and work and work,” a voice grumbled from across the room. Terese shot her a glance and a grin and went on.

  “Yeah. And work. But when I think of it, it was way over the top for a gallery opening. You know, they ordered ten pounds of beluga for last night. For blini and caviar.”

  I blinked. I did enough of my major eating at events to know that ten pounds was a lot of beluga. And blini and caviar just did not show up at gallery openings.

  “And the oyster bar,” knife-and-earrings added. “Don’t forget the oyster bar.”

  Terese rolled her eyes. “One will not forget that, will one?” she said in clipped tones.

  I wanted to ask—I really did—and Terese so obviously wanted to tell me, but we were getting offtrack.