The Edge

Chapter 17

He expected her to start screaming, or maybe throw something at him, or fire up the blowtorch on her welding kit and come at him for a personal charcoaling session.

But Alex just stood there in front of her painting, her palette in one hand and a slender brush in the other. “You’re persistent.”

“My job sort of requires that.” He looked around. “So this is where the magic happens?”

“It’s not so much magic as just hard work, luck, and a dash of creativity and talent thrown in.”

He looked around at paintings in oil, acrylic, and watercolor along with clay sculptures all in various stages of completion. Bronze and other metallic figures bent and curved by heat and pressure into fascinating shapes were arrayed around the perimeter of the space.

“I think it’s more than a dash of talent. I can barely draw a straight line. This... this is really impressive, Ms. Silkwell.”

His frankness seemed to draw down whatever anger she might have been feeling at his intrusion. “I’m Alex. I’ve never been Miss anything.”

“And I’m Travis.”

“From Homeland Security keeping us all safe and the American Dream possible? I think you all need to step up your game.”

On that she turned back to her work.

He came to stand behind her and took it in.

While some of the works displayed in the studio were portraits of people, landscapes, and animals, this one was clearly more impressionistic. A yellow ball erupting out of an orange flame that, in turn, devolved into a blue wave that was about to descend, seemingly violently, on what he took to be roofs and a jagged church steeple reaching disproportionately far into the sky.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“What I see in my head every morning when I wake up,” she replied as she added some shadowing to the flame.

“And what does it represent to you?”

She glanced at him. “More importantly, what does it represent to you?”

He was taken aback by her swift counterattack. “I... I’m not sure. It looks sort of like Armageddon.”

“And here I thought I was being subtle.”

Devine looked around, and something occurred to him. “You knew I was coming back. You knew I would see you coming in here. And that’s why you began working on this painting.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

But her cheeks flushed and she wouldn’t look at him.

“This work looks finished, while you have lots of others in far earlier stages. So what’s so important about this piece that you wanted me to see you working on it? I take it you believe Armageddon is coming to Putnam?”

“What a vivid imagination you have. You might want to consider a career in fiction.”

“Okay, what does it mean to you, the painting? And why do you see that scene in your head every morning?”

“That is my business and no concern of yours. And didn’t you come here to ask me questions about my sister?”

Her phone buzzed. She put her brush down, slipped it from her pocket, and glanced at the screen. “Give me a minute,” she said and started thumbing a response.

Devine took the time to look around some more. That was when he saw the large framed, finished painting. It looked to be a white dress with a large red spot dead on the center. The way it had been painted, it seemed like the red spot was perpetually growing; a neat optical illusion, he thought. Then he saw a brass plate tacked onto the frame that read, HER FIRST PERIOD.

Okay, didn’t see that one coming.

In another corner he spotted something that also gave him considerable pause.

He bent down to peer closer.

Damn.

It was a bronze sculpture that looked like a heavily veined, erect penis that was looped with a chain. And down below, around the testicles, were... handcuffs.

“Want to buy it? I’ll give you a good price. I bet it would look great in your living room.”

He turned to see her staring at him as she slipped her phone back into her pocket.

“I can guess at the symbolism,” he said.

“Can you now?” She perched on the edge of a worktable and crossed one long leg over the other. “Please share?”

“Without being too graphic, I suppose it’s to shackle, or at least push back against a man’s... baser impulses.”

“In that regard life does not imitate art, because there is no way to really do that.”

“Some things are changing, hopefully for the better.”

“Some would say the change is happening far too slowly. It can be depressing.” She looked around her space. “But some of the greatest artists were depressed all the time. They used that to power their creativity.”

“I can understand that.”

“You can? Really?”

“I served with a guy who drew these big designs in the sand when we were in the Middle East during some pretty heavy fighting. We were losing guys every day, and we were having to kill people every day, and not just soldiers on the other side, because lots of different sorts of people were fighting against us. After every mission, he’d come back, hang up his gear, pull out this wooden paddle he’d whittled, and mark out, well, what I guess you’d call artwork in the sand. They never lasted because a wind storm would come through and they’d be gone. But he kept at it. I could never figure out what his designs meant and he never said, but they were pretty intricate.”

“Did you ask him why he did it?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“What’d he say?” she asked, with what seemed genuine interest.

“He said it was either do that or blow his brains out.”

“I’ve never killed anyone, but I think I can understand what your friend meant.” She slowly returned to her painting and started adding brushstrokes to it.

“I was told that you turned down some great art schools.”

She glanced at him in annoyance. “The timing was not right.”

“And now?”

“And now I don’t need them, do I? I educated myself. We have a wonderful library here in Putnam filled with books about everything I would want to know about from writers all around the world.”

“And I guess you didn’t need any formal art instruction.”

“I actually had an excellent teacher and mentor right here.”

“Who was that?” said a surprised Devine.

“You have no reason to know.”

“O-okay,” he said, wondering why she would have a problem with sharing information like that. “I understand you teach art part-time at the public school.”

Her expression instantly brightened. “I do. Twice a week at the very end of the day. That’s all they could afford. They barely have books in the school library or computers for the students. When government budgets are tight they always cut education; the students can’t vote.”

“But they will one day,” pointed out Devine.

“The kids were uninterested in art at first. But their enthusiasm grew as they got better.” She looked around. “But the odds are stacked against them. Jobs are limited in this part of Maine, along with opportunity. Drugs are rampant, and grandparents are raising their grandkids because of it. Ninety percent of families are on some sort of government assistance. Many of these kids are being dropped into big black holes, never to be seen again.”

“But you might find an artist out there who you could lead to another, better future.”

“I doubt I have that ability in me.”

“Why don’t I believe that?”

She put her brush down and stared at him. “Believe what you want.”

“Okay, let’s talk about your sister.”

“I didn’t even know she was in town,” she said automatically.

Just like her brother told me. And I believe it even less this time around.

“Did she come here often and not tell you?”

“She didn’t come here all that often. Once or twice a year.”

“When was the last time?”

“During the summer.”

“Why not more often?” asked Devine.

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask her, and you can’t.”

“When was the last time you saw or spoke with her?”

Alex let out an extended breath and shook her head. “Saw her briefly when she came here during the summer. Spoke to her last? I can’t really remember.”

“Ballpark? Months, weeks, days?”

“Over a month,” said Alex.

“What’d you talk about?”

“Nothing important.”

“You two weren’t close?”

“She had her life and I had mine and they didn’t really mix well. She was off somewhere around the world while I was stuck right here in Putnam.”

“Stuck? By your choice?”

“Bad choice of words. It has everything I want as an artist. Solitude, incredible beauty, haunting images, a place that makes you think. It’s very inspiring.”

“I spoke with your mother. She thought you should be in New York, or California, or Europe.”

“Of course she did.”

“You see her much?”

“Not for years,” said Alex.

“I saw your father, too.”

Her expression grew firmer and seemed to be pulling her inward. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Your brother said he goes to visit him.”

“They have that military connection,” she said in answer. “I don’t.”

“I don’t think he has long left.”

“None of us know how long we have left,” she replied.

“So you didn’t know Jenny was in town and you hadn’t seen or spoken with her in a while?”

“That’s right. So I really can’t help you.” She turned back to her canvas. “And I have a lot of work to do. So...”

“Have you started selling your artwork? Your mother didn’t think you were.”

“I have an agent now. Over the last few years I’ve been commissioned to do a number of paintings and sculptures. You can tell my mother that my clients include people from New York and California and across the pond.”

“You should tell her yourself. I’m sure she’ll be very happy for you.”

“I’m not nearly as sure about that as you appear to be.”

“Are you sad that your sister is no longer living?” Devine had decided to ask this provocative question to get something from the woman that didn’t sound scripted.

“What the hell kind of question is that?” she said, her face flushing again and her thick eyebrows nearly touching.

“It’s just that, a question.”

“You found me sobbing my heart out at the inn.”

“I just don’t know why you were sobbing your heart out. You didn’t hang around.”

“Well, it was because of her. So now you know. Are we done?”

“Then why did you intimate that you would not be describing your sister to me as a person much loved by folks here?”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

Devine repeated back the account she had given him from the notes he had put in his iPhone.

“Does that jog your memory?”

“No.”

“Okay, one last thing.”

“What?” she snapped.

“I’d like you to go with me to where your sister’s body was found.”

“Why would I do that?” she said slowly. “And why would you want me to do that?”

“Because you know this area far better than I do. And you clearly possess something that might help me.”

“What, pray tell, is that?”

“An artist’s insight into the human soul.”

“I still don’t think I can help you,” she said, her tone and voice not nearly as assured.

“Let’s go find out.” He paused and added, “Please.”