A Killing at Cotton Hill (22 page)

Walking out back to Greg's cabin, I think about why Alex Eubanks would have come to see him. Greg takes a minute to answer his door, and when he does, he's blinking and he has that faraway look in his eyes, like he's been in his own world. He has a smear of pastel chalk on his face. “Mr. Craddock, I'm glad to see you. Come on in.”

My eyes shoot to the easel. He has put aside the painting he was working on when I first came here and has started another one. I don't see how this boy can be contained here in this small part of the world.

“You're working hard,” I say.

He looks at the painting and frowns. “I'm going to have to figure out how to get some supplies. I'm running low on a few things.”

“We'll figure something out,” I say. “Greg, I'll come right out and ask. A neighbor of mine saw somebody that looked like you at my house yesterday. Did you come by?”

He sits down on the bed, his face losing its animation. “Yes, I needed some advice, and I thought maybe I could talk to you.”

I clear some rags off his only chair and sit down. “Advice about what?”

“You know Caroline wants to sell this place.”

“And what do you think?”

“The more I think about it, the more I don't want to. But I can't stop her because I don't have any money. She's says I'll get half the proceeds, and I have to have something to live on, so I guess I have to sell.”

“You like it out here.”

“This is where I landed after my folks died, and my grandma was good to me. I have my studio set up here. And it's quiet.” He looks off in the distance. “Maybe if I was set up somewhere else, I'd like it just as much, though. As long as I can work.”

What draws me to Greg's work is that it has the land in it. Not a landscape, but the expanse of it, and the colors of the soil and the grass and the wild weeds, and the sky with clouds or with sun. I think about Diebenkorn and the series he did that has ocean in it. And Georgia O'Keefe with her passion for the desert. Not that Greg paints like Diebenkorn or O'Keefe, but his work spins up out of this land with the same kind of passion. It wouldn't be a bad idea for him to spend some time in other places, and expand his horizons. But it would be a shame for him to not have his prime territory to come back to, if he wanted.

“Why don't you hold out on making a decision for a few days? There's no hurry, in spite of what Caroline says. Nothing can happen until after probate anyway, and that could take up to a year.”

“A year?” He looks panicky. “I don't know what I'm going to do for money. I'm going to have to get me a job, fast. Wayne says maybe he can find something for me.”

“Before you go off just getting any old job, I'd like to have somebody I know in Houston take a look at your work. You could bring a few of your paintings along that you feel like you might be ready to part with. While we're there, we can pick you up some supplies.”

“I'm not really good enough for anybody to buy my paintings yet. I know that.”

“You may have to let me advance you a little bit of money,” I say. “Then when the estate is settled, we can figure out how I can get paid back.” What I'm thinking is that I might buy a couple of things from him, but I want George Manning, a gallery owner I know, to take a look at the work first. I don't want to falsely encourage the boy if I'm off track.

“I don't know what to say.” His face is a mixture of uncertainty and eagerness. I'm struck by how damned young he is.

“I had a fire at my place last night,” I say.

His expression freezes. “A fire? What about your art? Was anything burned?”

It's the right response. I just flat don't believe he would have set that fire. “No. Everything is safe.” Again, I see no reason to bring up the Thiebaud.

He blows out a breath of relief. “That would have been like, I don't know, the worst thing I can think of.” He looks around his studio, as if imagining his work being burned. “How did it happen?”

“Nobody's sure yet. Could be somebody set the fire.”

He jumps up. “Set it? On purpose? What would they do that for?”

“That's a good question. I'm going to leave that to the fire inspector to worry about. Now I need to talk to you about something else. I went off to see your old teacher, Alex Eubanks, yesterday.”

Greg shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “I know. He told me. He came by here yesterday afternoon as mad as a wet hen.”

“What was the problem?”

“He seemed to think I said something that made you suspicious of him. I told him I only told you the truth.”

“Was it the truth?” I say.

“I don't know what you mean.”

“You told me your grandma couldn't pay for lessons, and that you'd outgrown him as a teacher. I think there's more to it.”

Greg goes over to his easel and stares at the painting he's begun. I realize the colors are different; some flesh tones and softness. It makes me think of a woman's skin. “I guess you're right,” he says.

“Eubanks have a daughter?”

He nods.

“She came out here to see you yesterday. What did she want?”

As if he's on automatic, Greg chooses a color from his pastels and lays a few strokes on the canvas. “Same thing she's always wanted,” he says, eyes on his work. “Sex. I don't mean to sound conceited, but she's always been after me. She said she came out to tell me she was sorry about my grandma, but it was just an excuse.” He makes a few more strokes, then lays down the pastel and looks at me. “Why me? She could have a lot of guys.”

I think about Caroline being so seductive toward me. I've asked myself the same thing. Why me? “I guess it's the age-old question,” I laugh a little. “Maybe because you weren't available.”

He wipes sweat off his brow with the back of his arm. “It's not like I don't think she's cute.” He gestures toward his painting. “But I don't have time to do the things she wants to do. Go out and ride around, go to movies. Even if I did have time, I don't have the money.” He picks up another color and starts dabbing at the painting.

“And her daddy got mad because you hurt her feelings?”

Greg pauses and looks at me curiously. “No, he didn't know anything about us. She was always scared he'd find out we were messing around.”

“Then he just came out here because he was mad that I came to see him?”

He puts down the chalk and dusts his hands off. “He told me you pretended to be looking at his paintings, but you were just snooping around. I told him he was wrong, that you probably were looking at the art, because you're really interested.”

“Did you tell him I had an art collection?”

He puts his hands on his hips, staring at me. “I did. Was it the wrong thing to do?”

“I don't know. I hope not.”

When I walk back in my house, my phone is ringing. “Listen to this,” Jenny says. “You know that business about the racetrack? Well, it turns out that may be real. I talked to a businessman I've done a little lawyering for, and he told me he thinks that outfit from Houston is serious about buying up several spreads around there.”

“Would you happen to know the name of the outfit?”

“Samuel, what kind of lawyer would I be if I didn't get that information for you?”

She tells me it's called “Best Land Use Enterprises.”

“Well the name doesn't leave anything to the imagination, does it?”

“You want me to give them a call and find out what I can?”

“Let me try it first.” I want to talk to them about the Underwoods in person, which gives me one more reason to head over to Houston.

So now to tackle my main reason to want to go over there. I fish out a card from a gallery that Jeanne and I did a fair amount of business with, the one we bought the Wolf Kahn through and a couple of other pieces. I'm glad to hear that George Manning is still around. The last I knew of it, his son was coming up in the business.

“Oh, yes, I still take an active role,” he says, when he hears who is calling. “Art is in my blood. I hope when I drop dead it's in front of a fine painting. But that's not what you're calling to hear. Are you ready to add something to your collection? Or are you out to sell a piece?”

“I wish it was that uncomplicated. I've got two things on my mind.” I tell him about the theft of the Thiebaud.

He is suitably outraged about the fire. “That just makes me sick. You've got probably the best Wolf Kahn I ever had my hands on. To think that somebody would willfully destroy it is beyond understanding. And the Thiebaud! Whoever did this must not know much about art. It will be impossible to sell it to a legitimate dealer. Only the most underhanded ones will touch something that unmistakable.”

“That's exactly what I'm afraid of. Suppose somebody took it who doesn't know that? If it gets to be too much trouble to find a buyer, I'm afraid they'll do something foolish, like destroying it.”

Manning groans. “I hope we're not looking at something like that.”

“So my question is, is there some kind of network that you can call into play so potential buyers will be on the lookout for it?”

“I can certainly notify people I know in Texas, but the problem is, whoever stole it could take it out of state and I don't know what happens then. If he gets it to someone unscrupulous, they could have contacts with those who don't care how they get a piece of art. They're willing to pay for it, because they won't ever show it. It will just sit in their vaults.”

“I've heard about people like that. The Van Gogh piece that will never see the light of day.”

“It's the most famous, but there are others. I'll do what I can to make the alert. Art dealers get their backs up over this kind of thing, so they'll put out the word. Now the problem you have to face is publicity. TV news people will get wind of it right away, and you're likely to be the object of a lot of attention.”

I hadn't even thought of that. “I'll have to handle that the best way I can. If you can keep my name out of it, I would appreciate it.”

He says he will, and advises that I also call the gallery I bought the piece from out in California. “Their name will be on the back of the painting, so whoever took it might think that's a clever way to sell it.”

I thank him for the suggestion.

“Now you had something else you wanted to talk to me about?”

“This is a whole different topic. I don't pretend to be good at this, but a young man has come to my attention who looks to me to have some talent.”

“You have a very good eye,” he says. “Maybe not as discerning as your wife's, rest her soul, but I'll take a look at his work if you think this boy is worth it.”

“I do. I happen to have some urgent business in Houston. What if I brought the boy in tomorrow?”

We agree on early afternoon. That means another trip out to Cotton Hill to tell Greg. I don't want to talk to him on the phone about it, because I'm afraid he'll make up some reason why he's not ready. I think it's just as well to get him to Houston fast, so he doesn't have time to brood on what pieces to bring in. If he's like any other beginning artist, he'll just start finding flaws and get himself all worked up.

And while I'm out in Cotton Hill, I believe it's time I put in a visit to Clyde Underwood.

I'm just thinking about whether I ought to phone Woodrow Callum regarding Allen Eubanks, when from the front room I hear my name called. “Samuel.” Caroline's voice has a timbre to it that gives me a chill.

“Come on in and sit down,” I say, trying for a natural tone, but feeling unaccountably nervous.

Caroline sets her purse on a chair, and walks into the kitchen, toward the table, moving like somebody walking through a bog, and worried about quicksand. I don't smell alcohol coming off her, but her eyes have the glazed look of somebody on a bender. I go over and pull out a chair for her, because it looks like she would have trouble negotiating it. She sits down and crosses her legs. She's wearing a tight skirt and a low-cut shirt.