The Summer We Read Gatsby (34 page)

On cue, Biggsy appeared on the patio, shocked to see the six of us gathered there. He was dressed in a tight-fitting seersucker suit and he too wore a hat. His was a small porkpie with jaunty red trim, and he looked too young and good-looking for this role, like a heartthrob leading man trying unsuccessfully to play the part of the bad guy. We’re used to crooks looking like rats, with beady eyes and bad shirts, and crazy people looking ugly and unkempt. But Biggsy was so beautiful, with those razor-sharp cheekbones and full lips, that in the movies he could only be cast as the love interest. Or possibly the villain who would then turn out to have been on the good side the whole time. It had been so easy for him to fool us. We’d been so willing to be fooled.

“Uh . . . hello,” he stammered, stopped short by the sight of all of us. He’d only expected Hamilton and someone—Scotty—who looked like an art dealer, and he was shocked to see me, Peck, Finn, and Miles on the patio.

“Hello, young man,” Hamilton boomed. “Won’t you have a Pimm’s?”

“Um . . . sure.” Biggsy didn’t move his feet. He was empty-handed, despite the plan set in motion by Hamilton for him to bring the painting to this meeting. “What’s going on?”

“It’s an intervention,” Peck cried out, the feathers on her hat bobbing madly. “We’ve had a few of those this summer.”

Biggsy looked flummoxed. “It was only a couple of joints. I have ADD. I take it to relax.”

“Not drugs, you idiot. Art.” Peck said, glancing over at me.

“We want the painting back,” I explained, speaking as calmly as I could, even though I wanted to strangle the good-looking young guy who stood there trying to look wide-eyed and innocent. “And then we want you to take your stuff and leave.”

His eyes darted nervously between Peck and me. “I live here. This is my
home
.”

“Jonathan,” I said firmly. “We know you stole from us. And we know you faked that letter from Lydia.”

He paused for a second, calculating a next move. “I just wanted you to
like
me,” he said with a pout, like he was trying to be cute about it. “Lydia loved me so much. I was just putting onto paper the words she herself used about me. And she encouraged me to do those pranks. She called it art.”

At this, Miles let out a snort. “Art?”

“That was a mean thing to do.” I sounded like a stern school-teacher. “You’ve been nothing but trouble since we got here.”

“And then you let me believe Miles took it,” Peck added, pointing a finger at him. “You almost fucked the whole thing up for me. I should’ve kicked you the hell out right then.”

“I think of you as my
family
,” he tried to explain. “We have no more living family, any of us. And I thought . . . you, me, Peck—”

“Peck’s mother is alive and well and living in a condo in Palm Springs,” I interjected, losing what little patience I might have had for this charade.

“Where she belongs,” Peck said with a nod in my direction.

“And
we
, Peck and I, are sisters, related by blood,” I continued as Peck beamed her approval at me. “You, on the other hand, are a freeloader we’ve tolerated for too long. So don’t try to put yourself in any category with us.”

He looked down at his feet. “I can’t let you do it. You can’t let Fool’s House go.” He looked up then with a vicious gleam in his eyes as he directed his words to me. “You think you’re so fucking worldly, just because you live somewhere else. But you’re
myopic
. You and your sister.”

Finn had been watching calmly from the big wicker chair, but now he stood. “Hey. Just give them the painting.”

“And the book,” I interjected.

“And anything else you took,” Finn continued. “And then move on. Show’s over.”

“What the hell do
you
know?” There was a rehearsed quality to the venom in his voice, like he’d been watching soap operas for techniques on how to play the villain, and it made me want to laugh. “You’re a fucking architect.”

Finn gave him a bemused look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Architects are all failed artists.” Biggsy was still standing at the edge of the patio, staring in at the six of us, who formed a circle in the wicker chairs around the low table with its bowls of chips and other “nibbles,” as Hamilton insisted on calling them.

I stood and folded my arms over my chest, glaring at Biggsy. “Where’s the painting?”

He didn’t answer me but took a step toward Scotty. The elfin Scotsman was perched on the edge of his huge cushioned chair like a child at a tennis match, head swiveling from side to side as he observed the action with delight. “Are you the art dealer?”

“The
dealer
?” I repeated as I realized that Biggsy still didn’t seem to understand what was going on here.

“I’m not an art dealer,” Scotty announced, pulling himself upright in his seat.

“But he plays one on TV,” Peck added. “This time the prank’s on you, Biggs. There’s no dealer. There’s only us. And we want our painting back.”

“And the book,” I repeated.

He swiveled to look at me. “What
book
?”

“Just give us back Lydia’s painting,” Peck said. “And then get the hell out of here.”

Biggsy answered with a sneer. “You can have the damn painting,” he said. “It’s not worth shit.”

We all seemed to speak at once. “How do you know?”

He put both hands on his hips before he spoke. “It’s no Jackson Pollock, that’s for fucking sure.” He appeared to be almost enjoying himself, in full performance mode now that he felt he had command of his audience.

“So who painted it?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “Someone short on talent. There’s a lot of them.”

“We don’t care,” Peck cried out. “It has sentimental value and we want it back. And then you’ve got to get out.”

“I’ll get you the painting,” he said. “But you can’t make me leave Fool’s House.”

There was a brief pause when nobody spoke. All this time I’d had Lydia’s revolver in my back pocket and I pulled it out now and pointed it at the young fool. “Yes, we can,” I said, trying to hold the gun as steady as possible as I focused it right between his lovely blue eyes. I’d never pointed a gun at anyone. I’d never even held one in my hand until that morning, when I pulled it out of the cocktail shaker in preparation for this afternoon. It felt surprisingly natural, though, to bring out this extra little bit of force, even though the unloaded revolver wasn’t anything more than a prop.

He looked startled. And then quickly his bravado returned. “You could never shoot that thing.”

“Watch me,” I said, willing my hand not to shake.

Finn was grinning at me as he said to Biggsy, “Just get them their stuff, dude. Nobody has to get hurt.”

Biggsy lifted his hands in protest. “All right,” he said. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. The painting was at Fool’s House all along.” He turned and gestured that we should follow him.

We fell into a line behind him down the path that led around the house to the driveway. I went first with the gun and the others fell in after me in close succession, like we were in a conga line at a party. “Wait until you see where that painting is,” Biggsy called out from his spot as the leader in front of us. “You’ll be blown away.”

I’m sure we must have looked ridiculous, like costumed inmates from an asylum being let out for a parade, to anyone on the street as we filed out of Hamilton’s driveway. There was Biggsy in the lead in his shrunken suit and hat, and then me with a gun. Behind me was tall Finn and then shorter Miles, who somehow managed to be texting on his BlackBerry while he walked. Tiny Scotty, in a purple paisley shirt tucked into orange Bermuda shorts with a red ribbon belt, traipsed along behind him, stepping daintily on the gravel in his flimsy espadrilles. At the rear, looking like they were actually supposed to be in an Easter parade, were Peck and Hamilton, arm in arm, he in a blazer and tie and she in a shiny long dress with that enormous drooping hat.

When Biggsy got to the porch, he stopped and turned to face the rest of us, looking both sly and stupid at the same time. “I told you, it’s in the house. Can you guess where?”

“I know, I know,” Peck exclaimed as she drew close. “The bar cart.”

Biggsy looked confused. “The bar cart? Where would I hide a framed oil painting in a bar cart?”

Peck shrugged. “I hid the gun in it. In Grandma Nonah’s silver cocktail shaker.”

Biggsy turned and opened the screen door and we followed him into the house one by one. Peck had to hold the sides of her hat down so she could fit through the doorway.

In the hall Biggsy pointed at the Pink Lady, the doll that had kept vigil from the top of the stairs since Lydia moved into the place. “She knows all,” he intoned, and then he opened the door to the overstuffed closet under the stairs that Peck and I had not had a chance to clear out.

“We looked in there,” I said.

“Not all the way in the back,” he replied with a grin. “And I dropped so many
hints
.”

We watched as he burrowed into the closet, tossing aside blankets, sweatshirts, and an old-fashioned wicker picnic basket before emerging, his porkpie hat askew as he held up the painting that had been missing for more than two weeks. He handed it to me without making eye contact.

“Why did you take it?” I asked him, still holding the gun.

He shrugged. “I knew the way Lydia felt about that painting. When you said a thing of utmost value, I knew it had to be that.”

“Did you think it was a Jackson Pollock?” Peck wanted to know.

He shook his head. “I didn’t know what it was. But I figured it was something.” We all went quiet then, looking at the painting. It had seemed to have such power when we were trying to find it. Now it was once more just a canvas rather amateurishly covered with oil paint in abstract fashion. “I didn’t steal it,” he added, gazing at me with imploring eyes. “I never
stole
anything from you. I was just doing what Lydia had always wanted me to do. Entertain. And all I want now is to be able to stay here.”

I still had the gun in one hand and I lifted it again. “Where’s my book?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he cried out, the picture of innocence. “Why would I take a book? I don’t even
read
.”

“Go get your things,” I said, gesturing with the gun. “And get out.”

“And if you ever come within fifteen feet of the two of them . . . or their shoes,” Miles added, “I’ll have you killed.”

“He will too,” Peck chimed in. “He has a phone number in his wallet for just that purpose.”

Peck took the canvas from me, shoved the chair over to the fireplace so she could stand on it, and placed the painting back on its hook above the mantel. Then we all followed Biggsy out to the garage and up the stairs to the studio. His camera equipment and a couple of packed bags were piled neatly by the door, and the mess of papers and other junk in the second room had been cleared out.

“I thought you couldn’t leave Fool’s House,” I said. “But it seems like you got yourself ready to go after your supposed meeting with the art dealer who was going to broker a deal for the painting you claimed to have for sale.”

He didn’t answer me as he lifted the camera and quickly switched it on before aiming the lens at the six of us crammed into the small space. “One more shot before I go?” he asked, but he was already filming.

“That’s enough,” Finn said to him. “Get moving.”

Biggsy didn’t listen to him. He kept the camera rolling as he approached Miles. “I’d still be interested in discussing my piece
A Fool and His Money
.”

“Get. The fuck. Out of here,” Miles said. “Now. Or you’ll wish you’d taken the easy way.”

Biggsy turned the camera on Peck, “You could
be
somebody,” he said, focusing a tight shot on her face.

“Honey,” she said, mugging for the camera like an old-time movie queen, “I already
am
somebody.”

I swung the gun into his line of vision and said, “Jonathan. It’s time to go.” He reluctantly switched the camera off. As he slung one of the bags over his shoulder something fell out of a side pocket and clattered loudly to the floor. It was Lydia’s copy of
Gatsby
.

I reached down and picked it up. “I thought you said you never read.”

He shrugged. “You said it was a first edition. It’s not, by the way. I had it checked out.”

I thought for a moment before responding. “How did you know about that?”

He shrugged. “As I always say, you have to pay attention.”

“I’ve never heard you say that,” Peck cried out indignantly. “That’s
my
line.”

We all started speaking at once then, insisting that he go. Finally he did, roaring off on his motorcycle, which was loaded down with all his belongings. We stood in the driveway to watch him leave.

18

 

 

 

 

W
ith Biggsy gone, Fool’s House seemed a different place, airier and happier. It wasn’t so much to do with Biggsy, or even with the fact that the rooms themselves seemed lighter and larger once we removed all the paintings from the walls except the one above the mantel. I think it was just that I was so happy that the whole world seemed different, lit with a clear golden light.

Even the brief period—it lasted all of an afternoon—when Peck was technically not speaking to me did not alter my feelings. Perhaps that was because she kept talking to me all through it. “I’m not speaking to you until you come to your senses,” she cried out, after arguing at length that we should still keep Fool’s House, even though we had not, in fact, inherited a Jackson Pollock worth millions of dollars. We were having this conversation on the porch and she kept stomping her foot to make her points. Each time she did the rotted slabs of wood would rattle loosely. I explained again, at length, that I too did not wish to sell the house we both loved.