The Play of Light and Shadow & Writing Page 2

  “Face it, my interests are aesthetic, not athletic.” From his accessory bag he removed a computer disk and inserted it into a slot in the camera, which indicated it was a digital device. He gazed into the LCD screen on the back, snapped a picture of her, and winked at us. “One can’t resist the enticing shot.”

  “Stop it. I look like a drowned rat,” Carol said.

  “You look quite fetching.”

  “Puh-leeze!”

  “I hate to interrupt the banter,“ Darnell said, “but I’m on the clock. Has the guest of honor arrived?”

  “Yes,” Carol said, reverence replacing levity. “The auction house delivered it yesterday afternoon. It’s inside if you’d like to see it.”

  “In a little while. I want to scout around out here first.”

  He strode along the deck and disappeared around the corner of the house. Carol, Derek, and I sat at one of the shaded tables.

  Carol propped her elbows on the table, her chin between her hands. “So, Dr. D, why’d you take the sabbatical?”

  “Let’s just say I’m having my pre-mid-life crisis,” I answered, then sipped some coffee. “And you? How‘d you get to be Bart‘s assistant?”

  She chuckled deprecatingly. “Dumb luck.”

  “I doubt that.”

  She bobbed her head self-consciously. “Okay. Right before I graduated, Dr. Gaines posted a notice for a research assistant on his Riveau project. There were a bunch of applicants. He tested us on a research point, and I got the job. It‘s been great. Free room and board included.”

  “You’re living here?”

  “Yes. It’s a long drive every day to and from the city, and there‘re plenty of extra rooms.”

  “And when the project’s completed?”

  “Well, I’ve made some wonderful contacts, and I’m hoping to get a job with a museum or gallery.”

  “You were a good student,” I said, “so I have every confidence you will.”

  She thanked me and then, that line of conversation apparently exhausted, addressed Derek: “Where’s Lexie?”

  “Inside, chatting with Marjorie. I thought I’d get some pictures of you and the other sea nymphs.”

  “Forget it. One‘s too many, the way I look.”

  If he intended to cajole them into posing, he was thwarted by Darnell’s return. The latter asked Carol: “Where would I find Dr. Gaines?”

  “Probably in the gallery.” She rose and wrapped the towel around herself. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  We followed her across the deck, through a door that led to the shower and changing-room area, and through another door that took us into the main part of the house. Turning left, we went down a wide carpeted hallway that emerged into a transverse corridor. Farther down the hall, I knew, was Barton Gaines’s office. Across from us and slightly to our right was the door to the gallery which Carol pushed inward.

  “Here he is.” She stood aside to let us pass. “See you after I get dressed.“

  I had been here on several previous occasions, but I was always astonished by the richness—artistic and monetary —of the gallery. Long, wide, white-walled and marble-floored, with a twenty-foot-high ceiling, it was hung with two tiers of paintings, among them works by Cezanne, Matisse, Braque, Leger, Maillol, and Cassat. Several sculptures, one of which I recognized as a Jacques Lipchitz, stood on pedestals spaced symmetrically around the floor. Track-lighting provided the illumination, the gallery windowless. The only other door, now closed, was in a corner at the rear.

  Barton and Marjorie Gaines stood before an easel several feet from one of the long walls. Marjorie received us with varying degrees of warmth. On Derek she bestowed a smile befitting a favorite courtier, on me one cordial but less intimate, and on Darnell one coolly businesslike. Gaines, too absorbed in his acquisition for formalities, merely said: “Welcome, gentlemen,” and with a flourish indicated the work on the easel. “Behold Nomad.”

  The painting was about two feet high by eighteen inches wide in a gilt frame. It depicted the figure of a man, naked and small and seen from the rear, wandering in a grotesque dreamscape. He seemed caught between an impenetrable forest dense with misshapen, predatory trees and an arid desert of reddish sand. In places the sand had shaped itself into monstrous faces, over which travesties of snakes, scorpions and lizards slithered and scurried. Mountains loomed beyond the desert, separated from the sands by a rampaging stream that appeared unnavigable. Skeletal fish leaped from the water. Overhead a vulture, talons dripping torn flesh, wheeled beneath a sun too pale to give off much light, too remote to give off warmth.

  Gaines stood by expectantly; I said: “I don’t quite know what to tell you, Bart. It’s macabre. Striking, but macabre.”

  He seemed oddly pleased by my response. He drew in a breath, and his mouth beneath the carefully-tended mustache stretched exultantly. “No question. That’s characteristically Riveau.”

  “There’s a strongly existential component here,” Derek said.

  “A good observation, and also characteristic.”

  “Barton’s like a child who’s just gotten the Christmas present he’s always wanted,” Marjorie said.

  “I am,” Gaines beamed. “I admit it. I am.” His grin faded, and his face tightened. “I only hope Marchand doesn’t want it, too.”

  Marjorie patted his arm. “Mr. Darnell will see to that.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about,” Darnell said, and I wondered how much art criticism was implicit in the remark. “What’s the schedule?”

  “Our guests will arrive around noon,” she said. “We’ll serve drinks and hors d’oeuvres in the living room, and then bring them in here to view the painting. After that we’ll have a buffet lunch around the pool.”

  Heels clacked on the marble floor. We turned as an auburn-haired young woman in her late twenties strode determinedly across the room. She was a younger edition of Marjorie, with a fuller but not heavy figure. She stopped in front of the easel and put her hands on her hips. Blue eyes glowered at the painting. Her lip curled. “Who in his right mind would want to steal this?” she said to Gaines. “It’s hideous!”

  Though reddening, Gaines smiled and greeted her with an enthusiastic, “Lexie!”

  “On the other hand,” she continued relentlessly, “anyone who destroyed it would be doing a service to people with taste.”

  He tried hard to maintain a polite and amicable facade. “Lexie, I’d like you to meet—”

  “Hello, Alan, nice to see you again,” she said, glancing at me cursorily before turning her gaze to Darnell. “You must be the detective.”

  Darnell only nodded.

  “This is my stepdaughter, Alexis Crowell.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Darnell said.

  He wandered around the gallery, glancing at the tiers of paintings, pedestaled sculptures, and furnishings. The latter consisted of four padded benches, two paralleling each of the long walls. He opened the door in the corner. The space beyond was a utility closet, a little under five feet wide and less than that in depth. A narrow overhead shelf was empty save for a light coating of dust. A foot above it, a bare light bulb suspended on a wire from the ceiling came on automatically when the door was opened. Beyond its glare was darkness. A lightweight aluminum seven-foot ladder leaned against a side wall. A hose for the central vacuum system lay coiled on the floor, a snake with a wide T-shaped nozzle half-turned toward us like a gaping mouth. A plastic-handled duster stood in the corner.

  “The ladder is for hanging paintings?”

  Gaines nodded. “And to reach them to dust the frames, yes.”

  Darnell shut the door. Her mouth crooked contemptuously, Alexis Crowell said: “Find the boogieman?”

  “Behave, Alexis,” Marjorie ordered.

  Alexis turned a punishing glare on her. “I thought we were on the same side in this, Mother.” Her last word held the bitter challenge of a loyalty test.

  “It doesn’t require you to make a sc
ene.”

  “And what’s Bart doing?”

  “I’m just being cautious,” Gaines said quietly.

  “You’re being ridiculous. If this Paul Marchand you’re so paranoid about knows the painting is here and has faked out the police on three continents, how’s he”—she jerked her head toward Darnell—”going to stop him from stealing it?” To Darnell she said: “Or were you planning to bring in an army?”

  He ignored the barb. “You raise a good point. I made a few transatlantic calls yesterday. If Marchand’s for real, he’s very good. The French police have no record of anyone by that name on file.”

  “Marchand is a criminal genius,” Gaines said insistently. “He’s always managed to elude detection. The only record of his crimes is Riveau’s journal.”

  Alexis gestured dismissively. “Between you and Carol, we’ve heard it all before.” She looked at Derek, who was now several yards away in conversation with a smiling, nodding Marjorie Gaines. “I need to talk to you, Derek.”

  “In a minute. First, I’d like to get a picture of your mother and Dr. Gaines on either side of the painting.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Gaines said.

  “Why? This is a special occasion, after all. You should commemorate it.”

  “Yes. Come on, Barton. It’s your pride and joy.”

  “You know flashes bleach the paintings, Marjorie.”

  “Oh, a couple of quick snapshots aren’t going to hurt them.”

  He flapped a hand in disconsolate resignation. “All right. Make it fast, Derek. And just one.”

  Grim-faced in contrast to Marjorie’s cheery countenance, Gaines suffered the photo-taking. Immediately afterward, Alexis grabbed Derek by the wrist and tugged him toward the door like a parent urging a recalcitrant child. I excused myself, too, left the gallery, and went around the corner to a bathroom. When I emerged a few minutes later, I heard voices coming from Barton Gaines’s office, the doorway to which was only a few feet away.

  “....supposed to be here with me!” Alexis said.

  “I am here with you,” Derek replied patiently. “Who else would I be here with?”

  “But you had to go out to the pool to see Carol and the other girls, didn’t you? And what was that with my mother just now?”

  “I took a picture of Marjorie and your stepfather, that’s all.”

  “And before that you two were giggling together. What, are you hitting on her, too?”

  “You’re being childish. I simply asked her permission....”

  The eavesdropping to which I admitted a guilty pleasure might result in my being discovered, so I made my way quietly back to the gallery. Only Darnell and Gaines remained.

  “How many people have access to this room?” Darnell asked.

  “Marjorie and I each have specially-made keys. They can‘t be duplicated.”

  “Good. That keeps it simple.”

  “I hope you’re right. Marchand’s breached some elaborate security systems.”

  “There’s only one way in here and I’ll be watching it—unless you have any trapdoors or secret panels you haven’t mentioned.”

  Gaines chuckled, the first leavening of his mood in quite a while. “A man’s home is his castle, but we didn’t see the need for any when we built the house.”

  We headed for the door, preparing to leave the gallery, when Carol Prentice entered. She had changed into a black turtleneck, black Capri pants, and soft black slippers— presumably her “bohemian“ garb. She was followed by a stout balding man in a well-tailored brown suit. “Dr. Gaines, Mr. Lakehurst is here—” she began, but the stout man hurried past her to the easel saying, “I’m sorry, Barton, I can’t wait; I have to see it,” and took root, entranced by Nomad.

  Gaines nodded at Carol, accepting the intrusion, and she left.

  Gaines introduced Julian Lakehurst as the owner of a Philadelphia art gallery.

  “You’re the one who suggested the party,” Darnell said.

  “It’s truly an amazing piece of work,” Lakehurst whispered, transfixed by the painting, not hearing Darnell. “The play of light and shadow—the Riveau trademark.”

  “Yes,” Gaines agreed.

  “The textural effects are breathtaking, aren’t they?” Lakehurst said to Darnell.

  “Oh yeah, that’s exactly how I’d’ve put it.”

  “Barton, you’ve got to promise to let me display it.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You keep saying that, but I want a commitment.”

  Gaines sighed. “I can’t give you one. If I decide to display it publicly, you have my word your gallery will be the site.”

  Lakehurst’s expression mixed doubt and capitulation. “Very well. I suppose it’s the best I can hope for.” He paused. “And if you ever decide to sell it....”

  Gaines laughed. “I just got it yesterday.”

  “I know a collector who‘d pay handsomely for it.”

  “Julian, this isn’t the time for this conversation.”

  The art dealer nodded ruefully. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. You’re a businessman; I understand that. But this is a party.” He looked at his watch. “I suppose we should get it started.”

  We wandered out to the hallway, Gaines locking the door behind us and pocketing the key. Lakehurst excused himself and headed toward the living room. “I’d better be getting in there myself,” Gaines said.

  “I’ll be right here,” Darnell told him.

  I followed Gaines. The living room was beginning to fill with guests. Carol and the art students circulated among the crowd bearing trays of champagne glasses and canapés. Their identical outfits evoked images of beatnik coffee houses from the early 1960’s.

  I spent the next twenty minutes chatting with some university colleagues I hadn’t seen in a while. Predictably, several wanted to know if the rumors about my interim career were true. Then they droned on with the latest faculty gossip and complained about administrative policies, reinforcing the claustrophobic tedium that had impelled me to take the sabbatical. While they prattled, my attention wandered. Julian Lakehurst held forth to a knot of people about Charles Riveau’s rising star in the art world. Marjorie mingled regally, stopping to say hello to an individual or group, then moving on to others. Derek, a glass in one hand and the camera dangling from a strap around his neck, threaded his way around the room, punctuating the festivities with occasional flashes as he snapped pictures. Wearing an expression of bored forbearance, Alexis stood by the mantel, sipped champagne, talked to a couple of women I knew to be her aunts, and kept a weather eye on Derek.

  Barton Gaines rescued me from the torpor induced by my colleagues’ chatter, and we moved away from them. “Another fifteen minutes or so, and I’ll take them to the gallery.”

  “All right. I think I’ll go see how Darnell is doing.”

  “You’d better warn him that Derek will be coming. Marjorie actually promised to let him take some pictures of the students in the gallery before the rest of the crowd gets there. He’s quite the charmer, you know.”

  I recalled Derek telling Alexis something about a “permission” when I eavesdropped on them. “I’m sure it’s harmless,” I said.

  He scowled. “Not to the artwork.”

  I went back to the corridor outside the gallery where Darnell stood watch, and explained the immediate schedule.

  “All right. Do me a favor, Professor? Keep an eye on things here. I want to talk to the caterer.” He read my puzzled expression and elaborated: “The Gaineses know all of their guests. If someone plans to make a play for the painting, he could be one of the catering crew. It’s far-fetched, but I want to cover all the bases.”

  I had barely taken up a position near the door after his departure when I heard a British accent intone, “This way, lovely ladies,” followed by some feminine giggles. Six women, Carol Prentice and the students, poured into the corridor followed by an eager Derek Trevor. Behind th
em strode a smiling Marjorie Gaines, who unlocked the door.

  “Into the gallery with you now,” Derek urged her and the others. “We’ll have some kinetic art among the static.” He winked at me. “One can’t resist the enticing shot, you know.”

  I stood at the doorway and peered in. Derek posed Marjorie alongside one of the sculptures and ranged the younger women around her, then stepped back to snap a photograph. I suddenly became aware of Barton Gaines, saturnine with disapproval, at my elbow. While we watched, Derek continued to call instructions to the women and fill the gallery with bursts of light from the camera’s flash. Marjorie spotted us and sent a playful grin our way. Gaines smiled back with feigned tolerance, perhaps overshadowed by mortification. Being in front of the camera elicited a girlishly unguarded reaction from Marjorie, as if she reveled in being the focus of attention amidst the artwork her husband seemed to value more. Gaines sighed and walked a few feet away to lean against a side wall. I followed.

  “I’m starting to regret having this party,” he said. “Where’s Darnell?”

  When I explained his absence, Gaines said: “Marjorie’s known Chadwick since before we met. He personally supervises all of her events. There’s nothing to worry about from that quarter.”

  “He wants to be thorough.”

  Alexis Crowell swept around the corner, a champagne glass in her hand and a frown on her face, moving determinedly into the gallery. The frown had metamorphosed into a glare by the time she emerged a few minutes later.

  “I don’t know who’s worse, you or Derek,” she said to Gaines.

  “Lexie, I—”

  “I can’t believe you’re allowing this. If he could get away with it, he’d have them posing naked.” She swallowed champagne. “This is a circus—with the animals in charge.”

  She vanished back around the corner.

  “Have you and Alexis always been at loggerheads?” I asked.

  “Sometimes I think Lexie is at loggerheads with the world.” Gaines sighed. “Occasionally we hold a civil conversation. Mostly she thinks I married her mother for money.”

  “You‘re married how long?”