An Illustrated Death (8 page)

C
HAPTER
S
EVE
NTEEN

I
’D EXPECTED TO
see the family standing in a receiving line to greet old friends, but they had already scattered into the crowd. Glancing behind me I thought I saw Charles Tremaine, and felt clutched by cold fingers. He would approach Eve, offer to buy Nate’s books, and there would be a terrible scene. Guests would learn something new about the Eriksons after all. But when I looked again, I couldn’t see him.

Bianca was standing near the bar, stylish in a sleeveless black sheath, her gingery hair in waves around her face. She looked sad and alone, her eyes red, but she managed to smile when she saw us.

“Delhi. Don’t you look sweet. I didn’t even know you with your hair up. You look like a friend of mine.”

Did she mean I looked like someone she could be friends with, or someone she already knew? Probably the latter; it would take more than a blue velvet dress to make us equal in her eyes.

“Where’s Aunt Gretchen?”

“I don’t know! When it was time to leave, she still wasn’t back from her errands and we couldn’t wait any longer. But she had one of the cars, so we assumed she’d come on her own.”

“But she didn’t?”

“No . . .”

Colin couldn’t keep out of the spotlight any longer. “Colin Fitzhugh,” he told Bianca with his disarming smile. “I understand you write poetry too.”

I had planned to slip away and look at the paintings on the walls once they were engrossed in each other. Truth be told, I couldn’t bear to watch Colin weaving his magic for yet another woman.

I had turned to go when I heard an incredulous voice. “Delhi?”

I turned and saw my sister, Patience. She was also wearing royal blue, but her dress had more sophisticated tucks and folds, and her diamond necklace was real. Still, with her blond hair in the French braid she always wore, we looked like a page from
Vogue
showing dresses by the same designer.

“Hey, Pat. I thought I might see you.”

“What are you
doing
here?” She sounded as if I had been attracted by the lights and wandered in.

Then she saw Colin, and her eyes widened further. In our last conversation, sometime in the summer, she had commiserated with me about my marriage being over.

He moved over to kiss her on the cheek. “Lovely as always, I see.”

“Hello, Pat,” Bianca said, stepping into the conversation with a professional smile. “I didn’t realize you knew each other.”

That was too much. Patience looked heavenward, and I started to laugh. “We’re sisters,” I said. “Fraternal twins. I guess I didn’t tell you I had a twin.”

“Separated at birth,” Bianca agreed. But when she saw I wasn’t teasing, she looked from one to the other of us more carefully, then shook her head at me. “You’re married to Colin Fitzhugh. You and Pat Selzer are
twins.
Oh, I know. Your father is Warren Buffett.”

“He’s sorry he couldn’t be here.”

Pat pulled at my arm. “I think I need a drink,”

The others laughed, as people always do when they hear that.

We moved to the table where two bartenders in white dinner jackets were taking orders. I picked up a flute of champagne and Patience ordered a mojito.

Once we had our drinks, she got me alone in the hallway from the theater and turned accusatory. “You never told me you knew Bianca Erikson.”

You didn’t tell me you were married to Colin Fitzhugh.
Why were connections so important to these people? “You never cared who my friends were before.”

“That’s because they were nobodies. This is different. Bianca Erikson? And where did you get that dress?”

“You like it?”

“I don’t know. What are you doing here with Colin? Are you back together?”

“Not really.” I accepted an oyster wrapped in bacon from a passing tray. “It’s complicated. Bianca wanted to meet him, she’s a poet too. Tell me something.” I glanced around to make sure no Eriksons were in hearing distance, then pulled Pat closer. “How did Bianca’s husband die?”

“He’s dead? My God, when did that happen?” I hadn’t seen her so shocked since someone put a snake in her locker in junior high.

“Last March?”

“You mean Jack Marshall? He’s not dead, he’s living in Sag Harbor! He and Bianca are divorced. He already has a fiancée.”

Marshall had been Morgan’s last name in the news clipping.

Patience shook my arm. “Why did you think Jack was dead?”

“I don’t know. She said that she had lost him and I thought he had died too.”

“Not as of last week.”

I lowered my voice further. “Speaking of Colin, he made me a crazy proposition.”

“He’s gotten kinky?”

“No.” I couldn’t help laughing at the thought of him handcuffing me to the brass bed. “He has this idea that he wants to buy a grand manor now that he’s been made division head and he wants me as his official hostess. I mean his wife. Whatever.”

She pressed her glass against her mouth to hide a laugh. “What would your duties be?”

“The usual. Decorate the mansion, entertain, play nice with his colleagues. The kind of stuff
you
like. No books, of course.”

“But he knows you’d never agree to that. Why would he even suggest it?”

”I don’t know.” Had Colin thought I would refuse, leaving him free to do what he really wanted? Did he have some young woman hidden on the portico? Maybe he and Bianca would hit it off; she’d be the perfect hostess. The champagne glass felt cold in my hand.

“The trouble is, you two are too much alike.”

“Alike? Colin and me?”

“Don’t look so outraged. You both want to do exactly what you want. You’re both sure you’re right. You were just lucky that for a long time you wanted to do the same things. Anyway, you should consider what he’s suggesting. I worry about you living hand-to-mouth, eating cat food in your old age.”

“
Our
old age. I could come and live with you like a maiden aunt. Raise the children.”

“By then they’ll have children of their own. Listen, I have to circulate.”

And she was gone.

I
TOOK THE
chance to look at Nate’s paintings. They were all landscapes, showing the fields behind his house, the bay at low tide, and other scenes I could not identify. I was disappointed. They were too impressionistic, lacking the sharp details that made his illustrations so memorable. They might have been painted by any local artist.

On the other hand, I would have admired Regan’s work even if I hadn’t known who she was. Her paintings were simpler, the clean lines and flat areas reminding me of Fairfield Porter. Some of the objects were deliberately oversized, giving a fresh perspective—a baby bottle, a cheese sandwich, a bowl of fruit. A painting of a tan crock of huge red geraniums would have looked perfect in my barn. I squinted at the price: forty-five hundred dollars.

As I straightened up, I turned and saw Regan Erikson studying me. I hoped she didn’t see me as a prospective buyer. Next to her were two bored-looking boys around six and eight. The standard-bearers of the next Erikson generation. Or, if Eve was right, the little bastards who would squander their heritage.

Keeping an eye on the boys was a slender Japanese man. He reached over and smoothed the younger boy’s hair.

I caught my breath. Was he the reason they were not welcome at the compound? Eve had fiercely condemned the Japanese, and Puck had explained that his grandfather had been captured and killed during World War II. What underlying currents would have made Regan marry someone who was anathema to them?
An idyllic childhood gone sour.

With her eyes still on me, there was nothing to do but walk over.

“I love your paintings,” I said. “I wish I could afford one.”

“You and the rest of the world. Are you local?”

“No, I’m from Port Lewis. Delhi Laine.” Without thinking, I took a business card out of my woven bag, one that showed a photo of my Siamese cat, Raj, standing on a stack of books. As soon as I handed her the card, I realized my mistake. Bianca had instructed me Thursday afternoon not to say anything to Regan about the books.

“What’s
her
objection?” I’d wanted to know.

“I don’t even know if she has one. But we thought it best not to involve her.”

Which meant that Regan wouldn’t be sharing in the profits either.

“Bianca and I are friends. She wanted me to hear Puck’s music.”

“What did you think of it?” The man tending the boys moved into our conversation.

“Actually, I kind of liked it.”

“This is my husband, Dai Harada. You do know the performance was a put-on? Puck’s always been like Kokopelli, a trickster, he has the oddest sense of humor. My father indulged him way too much. But it’s hard to accomplish anything serious on the compound.”

“Was that why you moved?” As soon as the words slipped out, I was sorry. Far too personal a question to ask someone I had just met.

She shot a quick look at Dai, who glanced away, embarrassed. “We lived there for a while when we were first married. But when we had children, I wanted them to have a normal life.”

It wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. Had I gotten everything wrong? Maybe she was estranged from the family
because
she had left. Maybe the estrangement had nothing to do with her husband’s race.

“Don’t get me wrong, I had a fascinating life.”

“I’m sure.”

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to find my aunt.” Her eyes searched the crowd beyond us.

Should I tell her Gretchen wasn’t here or let her find out on her own? I decided it wasn’t up to me to say anything.

“She isn’t here,” Dai said quietly. “I looked.”

She turned on him. “What do you mean she’s not here? She has to be here! Where’s Bianca?”

She spun around, but Dai put his hands on her shoulders. “No scenes.”

“They aren’t going to get away with this!”

“Yes they are. We’ll sort it out later.”

“How? Someone needs to blow this family sky-high.”

“They will. But not you. Not tonight.”

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTE
EN

O
N
M
ONDAY
B
IANCA
was waiting for me on the parking gravel. She seemed to be headed to one of her committee meetings, beautifully dressed in suede slacks and a matching turtleneck in rich chestnut brown. A gold medallion encircled her neck. “Thanks for bringing Colin Saturday. It helped me get through the whole awful thing.”

“He enjoyed meeting you. The memorial was lovely.” It was the kind of thing I was expected to say and “lovely” was a word no one could argue with.

“Don’t expect much for lunch today. It will only be sandwiches.”

“That’s what most of the world eats.” When she didn’t respond, I added, “Gretchen has the day off?”

“No, she never came back! I mean she
did
, the car was here when we got home, but she never came down for breakfast yesterday. We think she must have gone to Regan’s.”

I remembered Regan’s frantic search for her at the memorial. Maybe she had visited the house before the family got home and spirited Gretchen away.

“She didn’t leave a note?”

“No. Sorry, I have to go.” She started toward an older tan Lexus.

“Did you call Regan to check?”

“And give her the satisfaction? You don’t get it, do you?”

Now she did walk away.

F
OR THE FIRST
time since I’d begun evaluating the books, the morning dragged. I sorted through the art theory and reference books Nate had amassed over the years. Most were common printings and not worth much. I bundled them into lots of three or four but still had to check their value.

The ham and cheese sandwiches that accompanied the deli macaroni salad had been assembled by Bessie, who pointed out firmly that cooking and serving were not what she’d been hired to do. Washing dishes wasn’t part of her job description either.

Nate Erikson was toasted, rather glumly, with tap water.

Eve was the one who spoke up. “What a bunch of sad sacks you are! I can’t believe that not one of you had the gumption to go into the kitchen and prepare a proper meal. Bessie’s right. We need to make new arrangements. Until Gretchen comes back, you girls can take turns doing the shopping and cooking. The boys will do the clearing up and load the dishwasher. And what about
you
?” She pointed at me and I wondered if I would be assigned table setting. “I want to see your artwork.”

My artwork? Then I remembered I was supposed to be illustrating Bianca’s book of children’s poetry.
Be sure your sins will find you out.
I’ve never been able to get away with a single thing. There’s a practical reason why I don’t rob 7-Elevens.

Now I had an image of staying up all night trying to copy illustrations from obscure children’s books. But I discarded that quickly. Why should I be lured into something dishonest? Then I remembered my tinted photographs from England. They were old, they weren’t drawings, but at least they were mine. “I’ll bring some tomorrow.”

“See that you do. If you’re doing something as important as illustrating my daughter’s book, your work has to be top tier.”

At this point it was barely bottom drawer. I felt Bianca shift anxiously beside me.

“How soon do you think Gretchen will be back?” Claude broke in.

“As soon as she remembers she’s lucky to have a roof over her head,” Bianca snapped.

I blinked, shocked. She was talking about Gretchen, the woman who had raised her. Then I realized how hurt she must feel that Gretchen had gone over to the enemy without even leaving a note. She hadn’t said good-bye or told them when she would be back.

“She still has to take care of her garden.” Rosa spoke up unexpectedly. “And I have her things.”

“What ‘things’?” Claude demanded.

Instead of answering, she reached for more macaroni salad.

“Maybe Gretchen just needed a rest,” Lynn said. “Cooking for seven people every day is hard work.”

“What seven people? There are only six of us.” Bianca was still ready for a fight.

“Yes, but she had this annoying habit of wanting to eat sometimes herself,” Puck said.

Bianca glared at her brother. “You’re such a smart ass.”

“At least I don’t write people off.”

“That’s right, you’re Mother Teresa. I never saw
you
offering to give her a hand.”

“Regan just wanted her own cook,” Claude grumbled. “She didn’t have to steal ours.”

Lynn turned on her husband, appalled, her fair cheeks flushed. Martha Stewart about to confront a cheeky audience member. “For God’s sake, we’re talking about someone in your family, not some indentured servant you inherited along with the manor. The trouble is, none of you think about anyone else’s feelings.”

Eating cold food was making people testy. After that the conversation withered and died.

W
ALKING BACK TO
the studio with Bianca, I asked, “Gretchen didn’t tell you anything?”

“If she had, we’d know where she was, wouldn’t we?”

I noticed that more trees were starting to turn color.

“You think we’re heartless. But there’s a lot of history here you don’t understand. You have something more important to worry about anyway. What kind of pictures are you going to show my mother?”

As if claiming to be an illustrator had been my idea.
I had a friend like Bianca in fifth grade, a fat girl with freckles who blamed me for everything in her life that went wrong. A bad geography grade, a spilled juice box, her dog dying. We weren’t friends by sixth grade.

“I have some photographs of children I hand-tinted.”

“Don’t you know any artists?” She turned it into one more failing.

What had happened to our closeness on Friday? Did she think she had said too much, been too vulnerable, and was pulling back now to reestablish a proper distance?

“I don’t know anyone who illustrates children’s books. It’s a niche market.”
Sorry, Maurice Sendak.

“My fault, I guess. I thought I’d have time to get a real illustrator. I should have said you were here to make curtains and slipcovers for the cottage.”

Oh, wonderful
. “And you’d invite your seamstress to have lunch with you every day?” I didn’t bother to hide what I was feeling.

“Only if she was good enough.” Bianca started laughing at her own absurdity and reached out and patted my arm. Then I was laughing too.

I
T TOOK ME
two hours to locate my photographs stored in the basement. There were not many that would work for a children’s book. Most of them were shots of the English countryside, marshy riverbanks and thatched-roof cottages. I picked out two that looked poetic. One showed an old mill churning water into a stream. The other had been taken at night with the moon over a Cotswold village.

There weren’t as many pictures of my children as I remembered —what kind of a mother had I been?
Dangerous territory.

I set aside one of beautiful blond Jane absorbed in a book, and one of Hannah and Caitlin, mirror images, exchanging daisies. I only let myself think for a moment what Caitlin would be like now.
More dangerous territory.
There were several tinted photos of the girls before England, one a favorite that did make me cry: the three little girls in Easter coats and bonnets, clutching toy rabbits that my mother had given them. My mother, now gone herself. I was surprised not to find any photos of Jason, then remembered that I had given up taking pictures in the weeks before he was born.

For the past two weeks my lost child Caitlin had been in the shadows of my mind. It was as if I had been hearing my name called and spinning to find no one there, just an outline of air where she should have been. I’d had to brace myself to look at the photos. I would be opening a locked door and looking at something that was forever lost.

I
WOKE UP
in the middle of the night, certain that Gretchen would never have left the compound without putting her garden to bed for the winter.