Because I’d been so busy with County Dracula, I hadn’t waitressed for Elena in months. During my absence, the old church had gotten a facelift. The parking lot had been resurfaced, and a new wheelchair ramp installed. A large banner now hung above the arched, wooden doors: Holy Comics – Grand Opening! Smiling at the name, I snapped a picture with my phone and sent it to Andrew along with the message: Found u a new retail therapy spot.
Elena came through the side doors pushing a cart stacked with foil-wrapped pans. “I wondered when you were going to show up.”
I guiltily shoved my phone into my pocket. “Sorry I’m late.”
Elena’s phone chimed, and she groaned. “You can make it up to me by dealing with Geoffrey. He’s being a real pain in the ass today.”
Geoffrey Leopold, the curator of the Muse art gallery, was one of her regular customers. Elena had met him back when she’d still been pursuing an art career. Ordinarily, he was very easy going, but today was an exception. According to the conversation history on Elena’s phone, Geoffrey had texted her a dozen times in the past hour. The current message read: Don’t forget – NO garlic on any item.
I read the text aloud, and Elena rolled her eyes. “He’s told me that a hundred times already. Text him back. Then go pour me a vodka tonic.” With her wide eyes, rosebud mouth, and heart-shaped face, my sister looked like an innocent schoolgirl from a Manga comic, but she had the spirit of a warrior. Especially when it came to her cooking. If Geoffrey became too unreasonable, she was liable to stick a pickle fork in his eye.
I texted back to Geoffrey Got it, and helped Elena load the steam trays into the van. “He must be working with a tough artist,” I said, “or else, he’s trying to impress someone.” Ordinarily, Geoffrey didn’t pay for extras like real china or hot food. He was more of a hors d'oeuvres and wine-in-a-box type of client.
The last thing to go into the van was the cart, and after it had been loaded, I climbed into the passenger’s seat. “Holy Comics is a cute name for the new store,” I said, buckling up.
Elena pulled out of the lot. “Yup. The owners are pretty nice guys, too.” She frowned. “Well, one of them is friendly. The other one can be intimidating. Still, I’m glad someone moved in upstairs. Being the only renter in that big, old church was freaking me out.”
When we stopped for a red light, Elena dumped her purse in my lap. “Here. Maggie drew more pictures for you.”
I happily dug out a dozen drawings of balloon-shaped cats. Like her mother, Maggie loved to draw and paint and always willingly supplied me with new masterpieces. The woman with the ketchup-colored hair had been right. The positive energy in my niece’s drawings fizzed like a freshly-opened can of pop. “Tell Maggie thanks,” I said. “You have no idea how much these things mean to me.”
Elena pulled onto the expressway’s entrance ramp and sped up to merge. “Are you okay, Cassie? I mean seriously?” Her worried eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “Since you’ve been working on the play you seem happier, but you’re still – I don’t know – off.”
I looked out the window, wishing my big sister was less intuitive. “I’m fine.”
“Is this just a moody actress thing? Or should I be dialing the Betty Ford Clinic?”
“I’m not on drugs,” I assured her. And after my lingering hangover, I was completely swearing off alcohol. “I had a bad audition a few months back,” I admitted.
Immediately, Elena’s face relaxed. Clearly, she’d been expecting worse. “Oh, that’s a shame! But a bad audition isn’t the end of the world.” For the rest of the trip, she gave me a ‘buck up, little trooper’ speech, saying that I was an amazing actress, there would be other auditions, and I’d find another part soon.
As Elena’s words washed over me, I leafed through Maggie’s drawings. My sister’s talk was heartfelt, but compared to the energy contained in those purple scribbles, it was nothing but empty chatter.
The Muse art gallery dominated the top floor of an old glove factory that had been converted into a ritzy galleria. The first four stories had shops that sold things like handmade silk scarves, Pewabic pottery, and artisan jewelry. The only thing I could have afforded there was an espresso in the main-floor coffee house, and even that would have been a splurge. Above the shops was a floor of exclusive apartments. The sixth floor housed the Muse – the building’s crowned jewel. A place where the crème de la crème came to add to their art collections.
Before the elevator’s doors were fully open, Geoffrey reached in and nearly dragged Elena and me into the lobby. “You’re late.”
“It’s my fault,” I confessed.
“We still have plenty of time,” Elena assured him. “Take a deep breath.”
He fanned his sweating face. “Tonight can’t end soon enough for me.”
“Why? Isn’t this just another opening?” I asked. Geoffrey usually handled these events with aplomb, but tonight, there were damp half-moons under the arms of his Moroccan shirt.
“It’s not the opening; it’s what’s happening afterwards that concerns me.”
Elena frowned. “What’s happening afterwards? You only ordered enough food for the opening.”
“There’s a small, private gathering following the public reception.” He managed a strangled laugh. “Nothing for you to worry about.” From the panic in his eyes, however, that nothing seemed like a whole lot of something.
Our footsteps echoed off the vaulted ceiling when we left the sixth-floor lobby and entered the gallery. The space had been gutted and stripped down to its exposed brick walls and hardwood floors. A row of tall windows gave a view of the Detroit River and the Ambassador Bridge.
As much as I loved the gallery, however, I rarely connected with its art. A few months before, an exhibit entitled “Herstory” had featured five-foot models of the Sphinx, the Eiffel tower, and the Statue of Liberty, all of which had been built from tampons. Before that, an artist named N’Rico had covered the walls with blank canvasses of different sizes. Each one had carried a five-figure price tag. That had been a wine-in-a-box night.
Tonight, however, I actually liked the installation. Most of the pieces were portraits created with lively splashes of color. Yet, in spite of the cartoonish hues, the models’ faces conveyed deep emotions: grief, pensiveness, peace, and joy. An enormous white sheet on the main wall concealed the artist’s latest exhibit which would be unveiled after all of the guests had arrived.
“They’re here, they’re here!” Geoffrey sang out to an angular man who leaned on a walking stick and frowned out at the darkening sky.
“Oh, goodie. I’ll release the doves.” Hooded, gray eyes glared at us from above a hawkish nose. The man dressed like an aging rock star who was desperately trying to regain his glory days: spiked hair, tight leather pants, purple frock coat worn without a shirt, and silver platform shoes that added a good four inches to his height. Even Geoffrey, who wore a ring on each finger and paired socks with sandals, didn’t look as absurd.
The man lifted his upper lip as he eyed the covered steam trays on Elena’s cart. “Food, waitresses, wine… How much is Hedda paying for this circus?”
My head jerked up. Hedda as in Hedda Widderstrom? I shot a look at Elena, but she was absorbed with setting up the chafing dishes.
Geoffrey twisted his rings around his fingers. “If we treat the clients well, we’ll increases sales.”
“If the art can’t sell itself, it shouldn’t be put up for sale.” The man waved his walking stick in an arc. “Look at this mawkish display! No wonder your finances are in the red.”
Spots of color bloomed on Geoffrey’s cheeks. “This isn’t something you’d buy in a furniture store! This is real art.”
The tall man sniffed. “Real art. I wonder how much real art you sell. Certainly not enough to cover the rent.”
“This isn’t New York, Victor. Real estate and taxes are cheaper here.”
My eyebrows lifted. This could only be Victor Stuyvesant of the New York Stuy
vesants. He might have been an impressive lawyer and a powerful financier, but he dressed like his wardrobe had come from Halloween USA. I wasn’t surprised that he’d written a play called 16 Voices Talking at the Same Time.
Victor’s smile grew cunning. “So, fat man, if Hedda were to cut you off without a dime, you could still run this gallery?”
Geoffrey hid his outrage by turning to the buffet table. His hands fluttered like bejeweled birds as he rearranged the silverware and re-creased the napkins.
Victor watched with amusement. “I thought not.”
Geoffrey flushed and began fussing with the flowers in the centerpiece.
“Or maybe it’s Hedda’s afterglow party that’s upsetting you. I’m looking forward to it myself.” He poked Geoffrey’s large belly with his cane. “What do you say, fat mouse? Are you going to squeak?”
“Victor, so glad you could make it.” Hedda Widderstrom, dressed in a sparkling red, mermaid dress, swept into the gallery. Once again, she was with a man, but this was a sickly-looking specimen who hung onto her arm like she was the only thing keeping him upright.
Upon seeing her, Geoffrey nearly whimpered in relief. Hedda ignored him, however, and kept her unblinking eyes fixed on Stuyvesant. “Surely you didn’t come all the way from New York just to torment my employees?” She asked the question lightly, but something lurked beneath her cool exterior. Something with jagged edges and sharp corners.
“You needn’t worry. I was only having a little harmless fun with fat boy here.” Victor’s gaze fixed on the pale swell of Hedda’s breasts rising from her low décolletage. “You look beautiful as always.”
Hedda acknowledged his compliment with a regal bow of her head. She was beautiful, of course, but also unduly formal for the opening of an art exhibit. Red feathers had been glued to her eyelashes, setting off her stunning dress. Her blue-black hair had been pulled into a sleek updo, and her thin shoulders had been covered in gold powder. She looked like a priestess of flame.
In contrast to Hedda’s beauty, her companion looked as if he’d crawled from his deathbed. His black tuxedo hung on his sticklike frame, and his skin had a yellow pallor. His thin, blond hair barely concealed his scalp. The worst were his sunken eyes which were so empty of expression that they might have been made of glass.
Victor eyed her companion. “Who is this wretched creature?”
“He’s tonight’s guest of honor.”
The man at Hedda’s side straightened a little and held out a trembling hand. “Luquin Astor.” His smile was like the rictus grin of a skeleton.
I was shocked. Not by the man’s appearance, but by the fact that Charles had been so jealous of him. Clearly, Luquin was dying, and, no doubt Hedda wanted to honor him before he passed away. Charles’s selfishness appalled me.
As if afraid to catch a contagion, Victor refused to shake Luquin’s hand. “Interesting choice.” He cupped his chin in his hand. “He’s weak, no doubt very passive, and fully devoted to you. Absolutely no threat whatsoever.” A dark light entered his eye. “Very unlike your beloved Marcella.”
Hedda’s eyes blazed, but Luquin – unperturbed – gave Victor a little bow. “I’m honored to have someone of your caliber at my show.”
“You should be,” Victor said.
Seeing that his compliment had failed to schmooze, Luquin’s smile faded. “I’m sure that my artwork could never match anything created by the Stuyvesants.”
Victor’s hard stare could have cut glass. “The Stuyvesants are too busy running their businesses to waste time doodling with crayons.” He glanced at Hedda. “We leave that to the lower castes.”
“What’s a financial empire without soul?” Hedda asked lightly.
“Business is what matters,” Victor said. “Because business creates money, and money is what sustains life. With enough money, you can buy anything. Even souls.”
My sister busied herself with lighting the Sterno cans under the chafing dishes, but I could tell that she was listening intently. She had graduated from college determined to be an artist, but after a while, the lack of good-paying jobs and my parents’ pressuring had convinced her to go into catering.
Luquin blinked his empty eyes. “Money can’t buy happiness.”
“And art can’t put a roof over your head.” Victor fired back. “Artists don’t generate enough capital to support themselves, so they crawl to the rich looking for handouts.”
I couldn’t keep my peace any longer. “Art is important,” I argued. “It gives as much to its audience as it does to the person who created it.” I pointed at Victor with a salad tongs. “Besides, aren’t you a playwright?”
Victor’s glare was so sharp I felt as though a freshly honed razorblade had been sliced across my eyeballs. But amusement danced in Hedda’s violet eyes.
Contrary to what Geoffrey originally said, Hedda informed us that dinner should not be served until after the unveiling of the new exhibit. The guests who arrived early milled around, drinking glasses of chardonnay and admiring Luquin’s other work.
Elena stared moodily over the crowd with her arms folded over her chest. “I can’t keep this food hot forever,” she muttered. The chicken was drying out, and the rolls were growing soggy.
Another ten minutes ticked by. As we continued to wait, I noticed two types of people in the crowd. Most were fidgety and kept looking at their watches or wistfully eyeing the covered trays on the buffet table. The others maintained perfectly deadpan expressions and stood so still they might have been modeling for the artist. This group also dressed with more flair. One woman wore a blue dress of such boxy proportions that she seemed to have dressed in Lego blocks. Another couple – a man and a woman – wore identical tuxedos complete with top hats, tails, and enormous, pink bowties. Others wore fanciful half-masks of animals or jesters.
“Do you notice that some of these people are a little odd?” I whispered to Elena.
“Not really.” She’d gone back to checking on the food. When one of the Sterno cans sputtered and went out, she swore under her breath. “I already used up the extras I brought. Did you take any along?”
“No, but I can get one from the van if you want.” Elena nodded and handed me the keys.
I went to the lobby and hit the call button for the elevator. When it arrived, the doors parted like stage curtains to reveal a giant of a man with dark skin and dreadlocks.
I froze. My midnight rescuer! In the well-lit elevator, he looked twice as handsome as he had at the Lamplighter. The proud forehead, the sensuous lips, his perfect jaw, all of it came together in a single, flawless form. Tonight, his look was business casual with a touch of boho: jeans, an un-tucked white shirt, and a blazer. Once again, the silver ring winked from high up in his ear.
When he exited the elevator, I realized I’d overlooked his most amazing feature the night before: his eyes. They were amber flecked with gold. When those eyes met mine, pleasant shivers ran down my spine.
If he recognized me, he didn’t show it. “Did I miss the unveiling?” he asked. The timbre of his voice was so deep I swore it made the floorboards tremble.
“No. Not yet.”
He thanked me and continued on through the lobby. He walked with a slightly uneven gait, not quite limping, but shuffling, as if worried the floor would collapse under him at any moment.
It was probably a good thing that he didn’t remember me since I’d made such a fool of myself the night before. Still, as I watched him enter the gallery, I was disappointed. Not that I’d had any designs on him. Drop-dead gorgeous men were out of my league. It’s like they were put high up on a shelf with a sign that read: Look, but Don’t Touch.
Finally, it was time for the unveiling. Elena quickly uncovered the chafing dishes while Geoffrey introduced the artist. Members of the press snapped pictures. As the curator droned on, I searched the room for my midnight savior. He stood at the back of the crowd, his hands clasped in front of him. But it wasn’t the curator or the artist he was wa
tching. He had his eyes on Victor.
I nudged Elena. “What do you think of that guy over there?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I think he’s a whole lot of heartache wrapped up in a gorgeous package.”
I dragged my eyes away from the man. “Heartache? Why would you say that?”
I never got my answer because Geoffrey finally grabbed the pull rope hanging from the shroud, and said, “Ladies and gentleman, I give you Luquin Astor’s latest installment: Stripped Bare.” With a dramatic flourish, he unveiled the art.
There was a collective gasp followed by a moment of stunned silence. Then one or two people hesitantly began clapping. When the rest of the guests finally joined in, my hands remained dangling at my sides.
The immense, brick wall was covered with a grid of evenly spaced, larger-than-life, black-and-white portraits of women. Some were head shots while others showed full-body nudes. But these were no pin-up girls. Each model had been battered in some way. Some had black eyes, others split lips. One woman, who looked to be my mother’s age, cradled an arm with a splinter of bone poking through the skin. Another had blood pouring from her ear. As if the pictures weren’t bad enough, Luquin had colorized the wounds so that every bruise, cut, and abrasion stood out starkly against the black-and-white photos. They were like evidence pictures in the trial of a brutal serial killer.
Yet, as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the terrible pictures. The vibrant colors were horribly attractive, and their poisonous energy called to me.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Elena said briskly. She handed me a silver tray of slightly-wilted shrimp puffs. “You start on that end, and I’ll work over here.”
Stage Fright (Bit Parts) Page 5
