Hour Game

Chapter 58

Eddie’s studio was in a two-story converted barn in the rear of the carriage house property. Michelle walked in the side door and called out, “Eddie?”

The place had been substantially remodeled inside. There were windows running along the second story and a skylight to give necessary illumination to the artist; worktables, easels and buckets of paintbrushes and other tools were neatly arranged. Large and small canvases in various stages of completion hung on the walls. The smells of oils and turpentine were heavy in the air. Stairs went up to a second-floor landing, where there appeared to be a small windowless room with a door.

“Eddie?” she called out again as she examined some of the works on the wall. The portraits and landscapes were done with meticulous attention to detail. There was one almost finished scene of a Civil War battle that, to Michelle’s admittedly inexperienced eye, should have been hanging in a museum.

On another wall were a number of objects neatly hung and labeled. They appeared to be assorted memorabilia from Eddie’s reenactment hobby.

She turned when she heard feet clattering down the stairs. Eddie had on an artist’s smock, the front of which was smeared with blue paint, and his hair was charmingly disheveled. Under his arm he was carrying what looked to be a small canvas. It was covered with a cloth.

“Hey, I was just finishing something up,” he said.

Michelle pointed to the paintings. “I’m no expert, but I never expected to see this level of work.”

He waved off her comment, but his smile betrayed how much it had pleased him. “Technically, I’m right up there, I think. But the really great artists have something—I don’t think anyone can really quantify it—that I don’t. But that’s okay. I’m happy with what I do have, and so are my clients.” He took the piece he was carrying and set it up on an empty easel but did not uncover it.

“So, any luck with Mom?”

“When your mother doesn’t want to do something, you might as well try moving a mountain. But we’ll keep trying. What is it?”

Eddie had turned to her with a broad smile. “Okay, close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Just close your eyes.”

Michelle hesitated and then did as he asked.

“Okay, now open them.”

When she did, she was staring at herself, at least a version of herself on the canvas, wearing the ball gown from the reenactment. Michelle approached the canvas and studied it closely before turning to Eddie in amazement.

“That’s why I wanted the Polaroid of you,” he explained.

“It’s beautiful. How did you do it so fast?”

“Worked on it all night. With the proper motivation a person can accomplish anything. But it doesn’t do you justice, Michelle, it really doesn’t.” He wrapped it up with brown paper and masking tape. “You can take it with you.”

“But why did you paint me?”

“You spent all day watching me play soldier, it was the least I could do.”

“I enjoyed watching; it wasn’t a burden.”

“I still appreciate it.”

She touched the wrapped painting. “And I appreciate this.”

She gave him a hug and was surprised at how tightly he squeezed her; how strong he was. And she squeezed back. For one long moment their bodies were compressed together. He smelled of paint and sweat and something else, something intensely male. Her hands lightly traced the hard muscles of his back and shoulders. She didn’t want to let go, but she finally drew back from him, her gaze downcast.

He cupped his hand under her chin and raised it. “Look, I know this is probably getting a little awkward for you. I’m not throwing myself at you. You’re not going to wake up tomorrow and find a new car in your driveway. But—”

“Eddie—,” she began, but he held up his hand.

“But it’s just nice to have a friend is what I’m saying.”

“I’d think you’d have lots of those, both men and women.”

“I’m more of a loner really. I paint and I fight in pretend battles.”

“And you do them both extremely well,” she said.

“Yes, you do,” said another voice.

They looked over as King came walking in.

“Hey, Eddie,” he said.

The men shook hands while Michelle looked on self-consciously.

King glanced around at the art on the walls. “You’ve really got a tremendous eye.”

“You sure my mother didn’t pay you to say that?”

King looked at the wall of Civil War memorabilia. “An interesting collection.”

“One of my few hobbies.” He grinned at Michelle. “You know, Sean, we need to get you into reenactments. I can see you up on a sturdy steed charging right into the teeth of a Union battery, sleeping with the mosquitoes and eating hardtack until your arteries pop.”

King glanced at Michelle and smiled. “The day you see that is the day the sky falls and kills us all,” he said, paraphrasing Michelle’s response to Lulu’s pole-dancing offer.

Eddie was about to say something when King’s cell phone rang. He answered it, listened and then clicked off, his features very troubled.

“That was Sylvia. Kyle Montgomery’s been found dead.”

“What!” exclaimed Michelle.

“Who’s Kyle Montgomery?” asked Eddie, bewildered.

“Sylvia Diaz’s assistant,” answered Michelle. “Was he murdered?”

“Sylvia’s not sure. She said it looks right now like a drug overdose, but she’s not convinced. She wants us to meet her at Kyle’s apartment. Todd’s there too.”

The two hustled out. Michelle called back over her shoulder, “Eddie, I’ll give you a call. Thanks.”

As they exited the building, Eddie looked at the wrapped portrait. “But you forgot your paint—” They were already out of earshot. He shrugged in disappointment and carried the painting upstairs.