With an Extreme Burning

NINE

Bright Winds Gallery was on the second floor of the Mill, the riverfront complex that also housed Romeo's. The cavernous building had once been a feed mill, Kraft Bros. Feed & Grain, in the days when Los Alegres was an agricultural and poultry-producing center and goods were regularly shipped downriver by barge to San Francisco. When the town began to lose its agricultural identity in the sixties, the descendants of the Kraft brothers had gone bankrupt. A local developer had bought the old mill in the early seventies and converted it into a unique kind of shopping mall on two levels—boutiques, craft shops, galleries, eating and drinking establishments. To Cecca's surprise, Los Alegresans had taken to it as readily as tourists, mainly because the developer had been smart enough to preserve much of the original interior: exposed piping, pieces of milling equipment, the rough-wood and cement floors. He'd also added other historical artifacts and numerous old photos of the town dating back as far as 1870. With this kind of ambiance, the Mill had soon become the place to go with friends or to take out-of-town visitors.

Rents there weren't cheap as a result. Cecca knew what Louise Kanvitz was paying per month for the small space that contained her gallery, and it was exorbitant. How Louise had managed to meet it continually for a dozen years was a mystery. She certainly didn't do a large volume of business; the three paintings she had sold for Katy last Christmas had been one of her larger transactions for the year, or so she'd told Katy. Cecca suspected she had silent backing, though who the backer might be was another mystery. Louise had never married (rumor had it that she was lesbian), lived alone, seemed to have few friends; and while she owned a small critical reputation in the Bay Area, her own paintings—odd, nonrepresentational water colors, mostly—were riot commercially successful. She didn't make much from her teaching either. Yet she drove a newish BMW, dressed well, and never seemed to lack for ready cash.

She was with a customer when Cecca entered the gallery. Or at least she was answering questions from a matronly woman about a hideous free-form iron sculpture of an animal displayed on a cube pedestal. She glanced at Cecca but didn't acknowledge her, although they knew each other slightly. Waiting, Cecca wandered through the cramped space, looking at the paintings, sculptures, pottery urns and vases, Miwok beadwork, and other items for sale. As art, they struck her as eccentric and of no real distinction. But she was hardly a connoisseur, and her tastes ran along conventional lines.

Two of Katy's abstracts were hung side by side on one wall. Minor pieces, not nearly as well done as “Blue Time” or the three that had sold at Christmas. Still, Cecca wasn't surprised when she saw the yellow and red Sold tags hanging from the frames of each; given the ghoulish nature of people and all the publicity surrounding the accident, somebody had been bound to want them. What did surprise her—and make her angry—was the new price stickers next to the tags. One thousand dollars apiece! Each had been marked at two hundred dollars while Katy was alive; Louise had jacked the prices up an outrageous five hundred percent. Exploitative commercialism at its nastiest. And who in God's name would pay one thousand dollars for inferior work by an unknown artist, even a recently deceased one?

“Hello, Francesca. What brings you to Bright Winds?”

Louise had come up beside her; Cecca realized that the matronly woman was gone. She made an effort to keep her anger in check as she faced the older woman. “My brother's birthday is coming up,” she said. “I thought I might get him a piece of local art this year.”

“Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

“Not really. A painting, perhaps.”

“Both of those have been sold.”

“So I see. A thousand dollars each—my, my. They were marked at two hundred last month.”

Louise stood stiffly silent, the way a person does when making a careful choice of words. She was about fifty, small and thin and bony, hair and eyes the unappealing reddish-brown color of kidney beans. The eyes had a chilly quality, as if she were looking at you through a thin glaze of ice. It was a full fifteen seconds before she spoke again.

“Katy Mallory was a talented abstractionist,” she said. “These are her last two major works. In my judgment, they're now worth more than the original asking price.”

“Now that she's dead, you mean.”

“Bluntly, yes.”

Cecca curbed a sharp response and said instead, “Your judgment must be right, since you've already sold them. Both to the same buyer?”

“Yes.”

“Who would that be, if you don't mind my asking?”

“But I do mind.”

“Oh? Is it a secret?”

“Hardly that. I make it a policy never to discuss my customers or my business transactions. You don't reveal who bought a particular piece of property and how much was paid, do you?”

“Sometimes. If the person involved is a friend.”

“I'd rather not make an exception.”

“All right. Tell me, though—did whoever it was buy Katy's water-color, too? I don't see it here anywhere.”

“Watercolor?”

“The one she painted under your tutelage. She told me about it,” Cecca lied. “A representational landscape, wasn't it?”

“You must be mistaken. As far as I know, Katy never painted any kind of watercolor.”

“Then why would she tell me she had?”

“I'm sure I don't know.”

“She did study with you, didn't she? Monday and Friday afternoons, starting in May?”

“Yes, she studied with me.”

“Every week?”

“Every week. Faithfully.”

“But not watercolors.”

“She wanted to branch out into other forms of expression. I encouraged her to concentrate on perfecting what she did best, to explore the subtleties of Abstract Expressionism.”

“But she didn't paint any more abstracts,” Cecca said. “You said those two on the wall there were her last works.”

“Her last finished works. She experimented with different canvases, different approaches. They didn't please either of us.”

“Do you still have them?”

“No. I destroyed them after her death.”

“Because they weren't salable?”

“Because they were unfinished and inferior.” Louise's eyes were colder now, darker. Glare ice, black ice. “Is there any particular type of painting your brother prefers? Abstracts, still-lifes, landscapes, seascapes?”

“Something representational,” Cecca said, to prolong the conversation. “Watercolors, preferably.”

“I have a good modern by a Bodega artist, Janet Rice. Reasonably priced. Over here …”

Cecca followed her to another wall. The watercolor was a vineyard scene, pale and blurry at the edges. Vastly overpriced at $150. She pretended to study it.

“I've had it for a while,” Louise said. “I don't think Ms. Rice would mind if I let you have it for one twenty-five.”

“Let me think about it. Do you have any others?”

“Watercolors? No, not right now.”

Cecca straightened. “You know, it's odd, really.”

“What is?”

“That Katy told me she'd done a watercolor, when she hadn't. Why do you suppose she'd tell a fib like that?”

“I've already told you, I don't know.”

“You did say she studied with you every week for the three months before she died? Twice a week, never missed a day?”

“Just what are you getting at, Francesca?”

“I think Katy was having an affair,” Cecca said.

She was looking for a reaction, and she got one, small but unmistakable: involuntary twitch in one cheek, slight sideshift in Louise's cold gaze before it steadied again. The older woman said flatly, “What makes you think that?”

“I was Katy's closest friend. There were signs.”

“Did she tell you she was having an affair?”

“No, she didn't. Did she confide in you, by any chance?”

“Hardly. Ours was a pupil-teacher relationship.”

“So you wouldn't have lied for her.”

“Lied?”

“About her spending Monday and Friday afternoons with you.”

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

“I'm just wondering.”

“Well, you can stop wondering. What business is it of yours, anyway, if Katy had a lover?”

“Her husband is my friend, too, and I don't want to see him hurt. If I know the truth, I can talk to the man she was seeing, make sure he keeps quiet about it.”

“You're the one who'll hurt Dix Mallory if you keep prying. Why don't you just mind your own business? Katy's gone, it doesn't matter any longer what she was or was not doing. Let her rest in peace. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

Four clichés in a row, Cecca thought. Very good, Louise. Very earnest and sincere. So why don't I believe you? Why do I think you're covering up?

“Are you interested in the Rice for your brother?” Louise asked. “Or was that just an excuse to come in and pump me about Katy?”

“I don't like the Rice. In fact, I don't like much of anything you're trying to sell.”

The words sounded lame and defensive to Cecca even as she spoke them. But when Louise, purse-mouthed, turned her back and walked away without responding, she had no choice but to let them stand as an exit line.

On her way downstairs she worried that she'd mishandled the situation by making an enemy of the woman. Any other approach, though, would have netted her even less information. Katy had said she was studying watercolors with Louise as recently as a week or so before the accident; that made it definite Louise had lied. Why? Keeping a promise she'd made to Katy? Or did it have something to do with those last two marked-up abstracts, with the person who'd bought them?

One other thing Cecca was certain of: Louise Kanvitz not only knew about the affair, she knew the identity of Katy's lover.

When she got back to Better Lands she checked her voice-mail first thing. Still no word from the Agbergs. The only message was from Elliot Messner in Brookside Park, returning her call of this morning. She tapped out his number.

“Elliot, it's Francesca Bellini.”

“Francesca, hello. Don't tell me you've found a buyer for this pile of mine?”

“I wish I had. No, that's not why I called earlier.”

“Oh? Change your mind about my invitation to dinner?”

“Not that either, I'm afraid.”

He sighed elaborately. “If you have any more bad news,” he said, “don't tell me. I've been in a wrist-slitting mood all day.”

“It may be good news, actually. I have a new listing that you might be interested in. A small farm in Hamlin Valley—eighteen acres, house, barn, chicken coop and run. The buildings need repair work, quite a bit in the case of the barn, but I think they're all structurally sound. And you won't find a more attractive setting anywhere in the area.”

“What's the asking price?”

“Three twenty-five.”

“Firm?”

“It is now, but it's a brand-new listing.”

“So you think it might be on the market for a while?”

“There's no predicting that. This is a depressed market, though.”

“Don't I know it,” Elliot said. “Realistically I won't get more than two fifty for this place, right?”

“Honest answer? Probably not.”

“I don't want to have to finance much on whatever I buy—if anything at all. Even if this Hamlin Valley place is what I'm looking for and I could get it for under three hundred … I don't know. Maybe it's too soon.”

“If you think so,” Cecca said. “On the other hand, it couldn't hurt to take a look at it. See if it is the sort of property you're looking for and what you can expect within your price range.”

“That makes sense. All right, when can I have a squint?”

“Anytime you like.”

“Not today. And I'm tied up on university business in the morning. … How about three tomorrow afternoon?”

“Fine. I'll swing by and pick you up.”

“I look forward to it,” he said, and paused and then said, “Have you ever had the Thirty-five-cent Peasant Pot Roast?”

“The … what?”

“Thirty-five-cent Peasant Pot Roast. Otherwise known as the Best Thirty-five-cent Meal in North Beach.”

“Elliot, I don't know what you—”

“There used to be a restaurant in San Francisco, in the gaslight era, called Brenti's La Gianduja. End of Stockton Street at Washington Square in North Beach. One of the city's best turn-of-the-century eateries. Their customers' favorite entree was the Peasant Pot Roast.”

Uh-huh, she thought, now I get it. “And you happen to have the recipe.”

“I not only have it, I make it splendidly, if I do say so myself. I also have some homemade grappa to go with it. Brenti's always served their pot roast with grappa, you see.”

Cecca was silent.

“Francesca? What do you say? The Best Thirty-five-cent Meal in North Beach, tomorrow night after we look at the Hamlin Valley farm?”

“I'm busy tomorrow night,” she lied.

“I have an open calendar ahead.”

“I don't think so, Elliot. I appreciate the offer, but … I'm just not in the market right now. For pot roast or anything else. Can you accept that?”

“Oh, sure,” he said cheerfully. “But you really don't know what you're missing.”

Meaning him as well as the pot roast, of course. “Well,” she said. “Tomorrow at three, then.”

“Tomorrow at three. And don't blame me for trying, okay? Consider it a compliment.”

There was a sigh in her as she put the receiver down. And a groan, and a shriek. Why did every other man she knew or met, unmarried and married, keep trying to hit on her? She was available, yes, and reasonably attractive, but good Lord! Owen, Jerry, Leo Franklin at the bank, Harvey Samuels at the tennis club, Fred Alt at Garstein Electric, now Elliot Messner … none of them interesting to her, particularly, and all of them sniffing after her like dogs in heat.

She thought cynically: Maybe it's because I'm a bitch. Look who does interest me, the only one. Look who I'm sniffing after.

Jerry said, “I'm worried about Dix.”

“Why? What makes you say that?”

“Well, I went to see him yesterday. Figured enough time had passed. I tried to get him down to the club for a round of golf. He wouldn't budge.”

“He's probably not ready for recreational activities.”

“I suppose that's it. But he didn't look good; he's lost a lot of weight. On purpose, he says, but I don't know. He didn't act like himself either. It's been nearly a month since the accident. He shouldn't still be hiding from the world.”

“I don't think he's hiding,” she said. “I saw him, too, the other day. He didn't seem sickly to me. Or deeply depressed.”

“Well, you've known him a lot longer than I have.” Jerry tasted his Cutty Sark on the rocks. “I invited him to the cookout next Saturday.”

“Is he coming?”

“Said he would if he felt up to it. I'll nudge him again; you might do the same. He needs to spend time with people who care about him, don't you think? Normal social activity in different surroundings?”

“Only if it's what he wants. It won't do him any good if he's pushed into it.”

“I guess you're right.”

Cecca stole a glance at her watch. Ten minutes to six. Still plenty of time; she wasn't due to meet Dix until seven. She sipped some of her own Scotch. Jerry had come by Better Lands just as she was about to leave, to invite her for an after-work drink. She'd tried putting him off, but he'd been insistent in his upbeat way; she hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings or to make an issue of it in front of Tom, and she had wanted a drink. So here they were at Romeo's upstairs bar-lounge, at a table by one of the windows overlooking the boat basin.

Jerry toyed with his glass, his head turned toward the window. The mellow-gold light slanting through the window sharpened and highlighted his features, his classic profile. Golden boy, she thought. He really was a handsome man, the more so because of the character lines in his face, the emotional depth in his blue eyes. But there just wasn't any chemistry between them, at least not on her part. He worked too hard at being charming and charismatic, was too superficially jolly. There was something in his makeup that wouldn't let you burrow underneath the surface to where the serious parts of him lay. A defense mechanism, maybe. He'd been badly hurt once; she sensed that in him. He wouldn't talk about his divorce, or much about his life before he moved to Los Alegres. “The past is dead,” he would say, “it's the present that matters.” Besides, it was the dark, quiet, brooding type that attracted her—Chet, Dix. In spite of herself, she glanced at her watch again.

Jerry's gaze returned to her. “Do you think he blames himself?” he asked.

“Who? Dix?”

“For the accident, Katy's death.”

“Why on earth would he blame himself?”

“He might if they had an argument that night. If that was why she went out driving by herself.”

“Dix never said anything about an argument.”

“I know, but …”

“But what?”

“You were Katy's best friend, Cecca. Were they getting along?”

“Of course they were. What makes you think they weren't?”

“Well …” He looked uncomfortable now, and to mask it he gave her a quick bright smile and said, “Let's just forget it. How about another round?”

“No, one's my limit tonight. Jerry, what were you getting at?”

“Nothing. I shouldn't have opened my mouth.”

“Do you know something about Dix and Katy?”

“No, no …”

“Something about Katy?”

She watched him fidget, his eyes not quite meeting hers. Then he said, “I don't like telling tales. Especially not unsubstantiated ones about friends.”

“If you do know something—”

“But I don't. I don't know anything. Like I said, I shouldn't have opened my big mouth.”

“You can't just leave me hanging like this.”

“Cecca, Katy's gone. And Dix is still alive. I know how he'd feel if—I just know how he'd feel. I've been there.”

Been there. The phrase made her wonder if Jerry's wife had been having an affair, too, if that was what had broken up his marriage. She asked, “How Dix would feel about what?”

“He's been through enough,” Jerry said. “He doesn't need harassed friends like me making things worse.” Abruptly he signaled to the waitress. “Look, I know you want to get home, and I'd better do the same. Forget we had this conversation, okay? Please. I don't know anything you should know, believe me.”

But he did. Or at least he suspected something. Heard rumors … from Eileen's big mouth? Or was it more personal and direct—words spoken to him, a first-hand observation?

Eileen, Louise Kanvitz, Jerry—and how many others in Los Alegres? Well, the more there were, the better the chances that somebody besides Louise knew or suspected the identity of Katy's lover. It wouldn't, couldn't, remain a secret much longer.