Butterflies in Heat (51 page)

Teddy seemed to be having a hard time getting started. "I'm one of the directors of the local museum."

Leonora was growing impatient. "I had no idea," she said with condescension.

"We have your Picasso on loan."

The man's stupidity jarred her. "I've never owned a Picasso. You mean, my Kandinsky?"

"Yes, that's the one," Teddy said. "His name escaped me for a moment."

"I adore Kandinsky," Leonora said, settling back, safe in the security of knowing that Teddy was here only to ask her to continue her loan to the museum. "He maintained that every work obeys only laws of inner necessity."

Teddy took a chair directly in front of her. Before settling down, he said, "In this case it was a necessity I have something to spruce up my living room for this cocktail party. I borrowed your painting."

"Borrowed?" A sudden alarm sounded in Leonora.

"Yes, took it to my place, planning to return it the next morning." Teddy fell back in his chair, letting the summer sun work its power over him.

In moments Leonora was on her feet. "Where's my Kandinsky?" she demanded.

Teddy smiled apologetically. "The painting was, so to speak, purloined. "

"After being illegally taken from the museum in violation of my agreement." Leonora's chalk white face was turning to a muddy gray. Her fingers clutched the arm of her chair.

"I can explain, " he said.

"Please. "

"That I might descend to the serenity of my little gathering, I had consumed an unusual amount of cocktails and wine," Teddy said.

"For you, I'm sure that must have been exceptional," Leonora said with biting sarcasm. She detested thievery on any level, and as far as she was concerned she was looking directly at one.

Teddy seemed oblivious to her insult. "Midnight found me floating alone into Commodore Philip's. There hadn't been so many queens and dykes on the prowl since Halloween. I seated myself at a table right by the door, and that's when I noticed a strange boy."

Cigarette in hand, Leonora was sucking in the smoke furiously, hoping
it
would pacify her. "I'm not interested in your tawdry sex life."

"In two seconds we were deep in some ridiculous conversation," Teddy said, suddenly relishing telling the story. "I never remember names on this particular sort of encounter, but I remember he volunteered he was an organist in Homestead."

"What does he have to do with my painting?" Leonora asked, her eyes searching desperately for Numie, but he had gone back to the kitchen.

"Considering I am musical, and a player of various instruments, I instinctively liked this boy," Teddy went on.

Where was Anne? Leonora wondered. Maybe she'd better call the sheriff. "I'm sure your musical talent is without peer," she said, hardly disguising the nervous edge to her voice. "My painting!"

"I'm getting to it," Teddy said, obviously disappointed she wasn't enjoying the story. "Fifteen minutes of conversation, and I figured a bird in hand. All I remember is two blaring headlights and my already, droopy eyelids."

The sun, this horrible creature—everything was becoming too much for Leonora.
It
was as if he were deliberately torturing her. She suspected that Ruthie Elvina was behind it somehow.

"When we entered my living room, " Teddy said, "about one-thirty, he thought my place was beautiful. Said I must be very rich. I didn't want him to think I had your kind of money, so I told him I'd purchased
it
as a shack—then spent laborious years on restoration."

Numie, Anne, no one was in sight to help Leonora. She went over and pressed a buzzer. She could tell it was broken. The humidity in the air ruined everything. She was afraid to leave this man alone. He might steal something else. Finally, she decided to face him. "You're going to need a restoration if you don't explain and quickly."

Her words were sobering to Teddy. "While I fixed drinks, he wandered around the living room. That's when he discovered your paInting and one I call 'Crazy Helen'."

At last he'd come to the point. Impulsively Leonora almost reached out to him, hoping to shake the rest of the story out of him: "This art lover," she said, "he stole my painting?"

"Not until I was in my bedroom with an accomplished trampoline artist who'd contorted his way through many an amorous night," Teddy said.

"Forget the pornography," Leonora snapped, pressing the buzzer with fury, even though she was convinced
it
didn't work.

"After this final workout, I was tired," Teddy said. "With no other assumption than he was going to spend the night, we went to sleep."

The smoke finally reached Leonora. She sat back down in her chair. Teddy's talk had mesmerized her into a kind of coma.

"The phone woke me at ten-thirty the following morning," he said.
"It
was an invitation to dinner that night. Then a sister, Trilla Russell, called to gossip about this sailor number she'd picked up in the men's room of the Greyhound bus station—apparentlyone of Yellow wood's rejects. Before I knew it, it was an hour before I left my bedroom."

Beyond fury at this point, Leonora listened to the sounds of her garden. She was breathing heavily, knowing that in a few
moments she'd be launching her counterattack.

"I thought the boy had to get back to that organ in Homestead," Teddy said. "I felt no alarm until I entered my living room."

Leonora sat up. Even though she knew the outcome of the story, she waited to hear her suspicions confirmed.

"My God!" he said. "Two spots on the wall as empty as my bank account. The Picasso, or whatever you call it, and 'Crazy Helen' were gone."

"I don't give a goddamn about 'Crazy Helen',· Leonora said. "The Kandinsky?"

"It
was crystal clear I had engaged a very crooked queen," Teddy said. "I was afraid to gaze about for fear of discovering more objects missing."

Memories of an awful hotel suite robbery in Los Angeles flashed through her brain. She'd blamed Joan for that one. "I don't care if he'd stolen everything in your house. "You called the sheriff, didn't you?"

Teddy pulled himself up. He was sweating. "I couldn't—considering
the circumstances. I'd be ruined in this town. A scandal like this just when the high-rise is coming in.
The money people
wouldn't trust me. I'd look terribly undependable. "

"I didn't even have that painting insured, you bastard," Leonora said, plotting her revenge. "I'm getting Yellowwood on the phone myself:

"I need time," Teddy said, "to track him down."

"How dare you ask me another favor," Leonora said. "You've violated a sacred trust. The ultimate rip-off! First, Ruthie Elvina. Now, you." She rose from her chair. "I'm not giving you any time at all. I'm filing charges: This was such a clear case of right and wrong, with her in the right, she wanted the episode publicized. It would show how the town abused her, not as a child, but even today.

Teddy's legs wobbled, and he didn't seem to know what to do next. "I'm not going to cater to you, Miss High and Mighty. I'm not impressed with your fame or your money," Teddy said. "You're just another dyke, as far as I'm concerned. A broken-down bitch!"

If
a knife were in her hand at this moment, she would have plunged it into his vile heart. Instead she said softy, but with a frightening intensity, "For saying that to me,
I'll destroy you."

She ran toward her parlor. Brokendown bitch, just another dyke—the words echoed inside her. None of it was true. Another attack by a cheap faggot, as untrue as the one by the gay minister. Fags hated her because she saw through them. She was compassionate and beautiful—not a bitch, not broken down. Attacking her in her own home, robbing her of her Kandinsky—the Albury creature was part of a mass conspiracy against her. Soon all the aliens on Ruthie Elvina's tour would be marching against Sacre-Coeur. After years of hiding from them, they were coming to seek her out. Where in the hell was Ralph? He could hire bodyguards. Have anybody shot who entered the grounds. In the glare of the sun, she didn't see the glass doors. She banged right into them, smashing her face. The pain shooting through her head was unbearable; the world going black, she fainted.

Leonora opened her eyes. At first her bedroom was hazy. A throbbing pain prevented her from making out the objects in the room clearly. "What happened?"

Anne was standing by, placing a wet cloth on Leonora's head. "You fainted," she said matter-of-factly.

In one quick move, Leonora tossed the wet cloth across the room. "Now, I remember." In her mind, she re-lived the scene. "That dreadful Albury creature. My Kandinsky." A growing panic came into her voice.

"Yellowwood called," Anne said. "He knows all about
it.
He's investigating. Thinks he knows who the boy is. Said to tell you it's best to keep it out of the paper."

"They must find it," Leonora said, desperately reaching for Anne's hand. She feared the loss of just one of her treasures would set off a mass of robberies. She could see it now: all the aliens on Ruthie Elvina's tour carting off the art objects locked all these years behind the walls of Sacre-Coeur. "I'll never lend anything again as long as I live." A sudden pain. ·Oh, how my head hurts. Quick, a mirror."

In moments, Anne was holding a mirror in front of Leonora's face.

"I'm badly bruised," Leonora said, gazing at her reflection. Without makeup, her face looked tired and old today. In some way, the glass seemed to mock her. "Take that mirror away."

"It's only a minor bruise." Nevertheless, Anne quickly withdrew the mirror. She smiled, as if she had news to cheer Leonora up. "You got a cable today from the Metropolitan in New York. They want to do a retrospective on you. Here, I'll get it." At first, Leonora didn't understand what she meant.

Anne picked up a yellow envelope. "Says here, 'you represented couture at its grandest. '"

A stem frown crossed Leonora's bruised brow. "The Metropolitan? Represented!" Rage exploded within her. "Darling,· she said icily, ·send this reply: Leonora de la Mer is no museum piece. I'm dateless and very much alive."

Anne looked disappointed. ·Very well," she said softly.

"Do it now," Leonora commanded, sensing her orders weren't being carried out. Hand at her head bruise, she lay back on her soft satin cushions. Surely no one except her vilest enemies could suggest she belonged in a museum. Maybe
it
was part of a plot to lure her back to New York. After all, couture was in jeopardy, desperately fighting to hold on. She was needed to revive it, that was true. The creative designers were gone, but the imagination of Leonora de la Mer went on fruitfully forever. No big trends were sweeping the fashion world—none like those she'd dazzled it with years ago. No one had come along to replace her. Women were spending less and less on clothes, because no one was around to inspire and excite their imaginations. She sat up again, resenting Anne for leaving a slight crack in her black draperies through which the afternoon sun came through. Of one thing she was certain, she wouldn't return to New York no matter what trickery was used. The world of couture had turned its back on her at a crucial moment. She owed it no loyalty now that it needed her more than she needed it.
It
was the same as Ruthie Elvina's invitation. Too little, too late.

Anne was back. "I sent the cable. The exact words."

"Thanks," Leonora said suspiciously. "What is that other envelope in your hand?"

Ruthie Elvina's invitation for tonight's party aboard the Saskatchewan. I'll call her, of course, and tell her you're unable to make it."

"How bitter life is," Leonora said, reaching for the invitation. She let it dangle in front of her, as if it were something unclean. "My work may still be at a peak, but I must admit my invitations have fallen off." She removed her large glasses and returned the invitation to Anne. "I remember one night when a perfume manufacturer rented Maxim's at a cost of thirteen thousand dollars—just for me. The whole restaurant was closed to the outside world." She settled back once more onto her satin cushions. "Thirty waiters served just the two of us."

Anne turned to go. "I'll throw it away."