Twice Dead (67 page)

“Like men don't? If it were Mrs. Monk, you'd probably go on about her cleavage.”

“Well, yeah, maybe. And your point would be?”

“You'd probably never even get to her face. You men are all one-celled.”

“You think? Really?”

She laughed, she just couldn't help it. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose, and she saw that he was grinning at her. He said with a good deal of satisfaction, “You're feeling better. You've got a nice laugh, Lily. I like hearing it. Mind you, I'm still mad because you followed me out here, but I will admit this is the first time I've seen you that you don't look like you want to curl up and take a long nap.”

“Get over it, Simon. We must be nearly to Abraham Turkle's cottage. Up ahead, Highway 211 turns left to go to Hemlock Bay. To the right there's this asphalt one-lane track that goes the mile out to the ocean. That's where the cottage is?”

“Yes, those were my directions. You've never been out to the ocean on that road?”

“I don't think so,” she said.

“Okay now, listen up. Abe has a bad reputation. He's got a real mean side, so we want to be careful with him.”

They came to the fork. Simon turned right, onto the narrow asphalt road. “This is it,” Simon said. “There's no sign and there's no other road. Let's try it.”

The ocean came into view almost immediately, when they were just atop a slight rise. Blue and calm as far as you could see, white clouds dot-ting the sky, a perfect day.

“Look at this view,” Lily said. “I always get a catch in my throat when I see the ocean.”

They reached the end of the road very quickly. Abe Turkle's cottage was a small gray clapboard, weathered, perched right at the end of a promontory towering out over the ocean. There were two hemlock trees, one on either side of the cottage, just a bit protected from the fierce ocean storms. They were so gnarly and bent, though, that you wondered why they even bothered to continue standing.

There was no road, only a dirt driveway that forked off the narrow asphalt. In front of the cottage sat a black Kawasaki 650 motorcycle.

Simon switched off the ignition and turned to Lily. She held up both hands. “No, don't say it. I'm coming with you. I can't wait to meet Abe Turkle.”

Simon came around to open her car door. “Abe only eats snails and he grows them himself.”

“I'm still coming in with you.”

She carefully removed the seat belt, laid the small pillow on the backseat, and took his hand. “Stop looking like I'm going to fall over. I'm better every day. Getting out of a car is still a little rough.” He watched her swing her legs over and straighten, slowly.

Simon said, “I want you to follow my lead. No reason to let him know who we are yet.”

When he reached the single door, so weathered it had nearly lost all its gray paint, he listened for a moment. “I don't hear any movement inside.”

He knocked.

There was no answer at first, and then a furious yell. “Who the hell is that and what the hell do you want?”

“The artist is apparently home,” Simon said, cocking a dark eyebrow at Lily, and opened the door. He kept her behind him and walked into the cottage to see Abraham Turkle, a brush between his teeth, another brush in his right hand, standing behind an easel, glaring over the top toward them.

There was no furniture in the small front room, only painting supplies everywhere, at least twenty canvases stacked against the walls. The place smelled of paint and turpentine and french fries and something else—maybe fried snails. There was a kitchen separated from the living room by a bar, and a small hallway that probably led to a bedroom and a bathroom.

The man, face bearded, was indeed Abe Turkle; Simon had seen many photos of him.

“Hi,” Simon said and stuck out his hand.

Abe Turkle ignored the outstretched hand. “Who the hell are you? Who is she? Why the hell is she standing behind you? She afraid of me or something?”

Lily stepped around Simon and extended her hand. “I like snails. I hear you do, too.”

Abraham Turkle smiled, a huge smile that showed off three gold back teeth. He had big shoulders and hands the size of boxing gloves. He didn't look much like an artist, Simon thought. Abraham Turkle looked like a lumberjack. He was wearing a flannel shirt and blue jeans and big boots that were laced halfway to his knees. There were, however, paint splotches all over him, including his tangled dark beard and grizzled hair.

“So,” Abe said, and he put down the brushes, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth to get off the bit of turpentine, and shook Lily's hand. “The little gal here likes snails, which means she knows about me, but I don't know who the hell you are, fella.”

“I'm Sully Jones, and this is my wife, Zelda. We're on our honeymoon, just meandering up the coast, and we heard in Hemlock Bay that you were an artist and that you liked snails. Zelda loves art and snails, and we thought we'd stop by and see if you had anything to sell.”

Lily said, “We don't know yet if we like what you paint, Mr. Turkle, but could you show us something? I hope you're not too expensive.”

Abraham Turkle said, “Yep, I'm real expensive. You guys aren't rich?”

Simon said, “I'm in used cars. I'm not really rich.”

“Sorry, you won't want to buy any of my stuff.” He looked at Lily.

“Aw, hell. Wait here.” Abe Turkle picked up a towel and wiped his hands. He walked past them to the far wall, where there were about ten canvases piled together. He went through them, making a rude noise here, sighing there, and then he thrust a painting into Lily's hand. “Here, it's a little thing I did just the other day. It's the Old Town in Eureka. For your honeymoon, little gal.”

Lily held the small canvas up to the light and stared at it. She said finally, “Why, thank you, Mr. Turkle. It's beautiful. You're a very fine artist.”

“One of the best in the world actually.”

Simon frowned. “I'm sure sorry we haven't heard of you.”

“You're a used-car salesman. Why would you have heard of me?”

“I was an art history major,” Lily said. “I'm sorry, but I haven't heard of you either. But I can see how talented you are, sir.”

“Well, maybe I'm more famous with certain people than with the common public.”

“What does that mean?” Simon asked.

Abe's big chest expanded even bigger. “It means, used-car salesman, that I reproduce great paintings for a living. Only the artists themselves would realize they hadn't painted them.”

“I don't understand,” Lily said.

“It ain't so hard if you think about it. I reproduce paintings for very rich people.”

Simon looked astonished. “You mean you forge famous paintings?”

“Hey, I don't like that word. What do you know, fella, you're nothing but a punk who sells heaps of metal; the lady could do a lot better than you.”

“No, you misunderstand me,” Simon said. “To be able to paint like you do, for whatever purpose, I'm really impressed.”

“Hold it,” Abe said suddenly. “Yeah, wait a minute. You aren't a used-car salesman, are you? What's your deal, man? Come on, what's going on here?”

“I'm Simon Russo.”

That brought Abe to a stop. “Yeah, I recognize you now. Dammit, you're that dealer guy . . . Russo, yeah, you're him. You're Simon Russo, you son of a bitch. You'd better not be here to cause me any trouble. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Mr. Turkle, we—”

“Dammit, give me back that painting! You aren't on any honeymoon now, are you? You lied to me. As for you, Russo, I'm going to have to wring your scrawny neck.”

SIXTEEN

Lily didn't think. She assumed a martial arts position Dillon had shown her, the painting still clutched in her right hand.

She looked both ridiculous and defiant, and it stopped Abe Turkle in his tracks. He stared at her. “You want to fight me? You going to try to karate chop me with my own painting?”

She moved back and forth, flexed her arms, her fists. “I won't hurt your bloody painting. Listen, pal, I don't want to fight you, but I can probably take you. You're big but I'll bet you're slow. So go ahead, if you want, let's see how tough you are.”

“Lily, please don't,” Simon said as he prepared to simply lift her beneath her armpits and move her behind him. To Simon's surprise, Abe Turkle began shaking his head. He laughed, and then he laughed some more.

“You're something, little lady.”

Abe made to grab the painting from Lily's hand, and she said quickly, whipping it behind her back, “Please let me keep it, Mr. Turkle. It really is beautiful. I'll treasure it always.”

“Oh, hell, keep the stupid thing. I don't want to fight you either. It's obvious to me you're real tough. I might never get over being scared of you. All right, now. Let's get it over with. What do you want, Simon Russo? And who is the little gal here?”

“I'm here to see which Sarah Elliott you're working on now.”

Abe Turkle glanced back at his easel, and his face blotched red as he said, “Listen to me, Russo, I barely heard of the broad. You want to look?”

“Okay.” Simon smiled and walked toward Abe.

Abe held up a huge hand still stained with daubs of red, gold, and white paint. “You try it and I'll break your head off at your neck. Even the little lady here won't be able to hold me off.”

Simon stopped. “Okay. Since there were no paintings missing from the Eureka Art Museum, you must be having trouble working from photographs they brought to you. Which one is it? Maybe
The Maiden Voyage
or
Wheat Field
? If I were selecting the next one, it would be either of those two.”

“Go to hell, boyo.”

“Or maybe you had to stop with the Sarah Elliotts altogether now they're gone from the museum? So you're doing something else now?”

“I'd break your head for you right this minute, right here, but not with my new stuff around. You want to come outside?”

“You were right about the lady,” Simon said. “She isn't my wife. She's Lily Savich, Sarah Elliott's granddaughter. The eight paintings that were in the museum, including the four you've already copied, belong to her.”

“Are you finishing a fifth one, Mr. Turkle? If you are, it's too bad because you won't get paid for it. The real one is back in my possession so there won't be any chance to switch it.”

Simon said, “Actually, I'm surprised you're still here in residence since the paintings have flown the coop. They're hoping they'll get them back? No chance.

“To be honest, Abe, the real reason we're here is that we want to know who commissioned you. Not the collector, but the local people who are paying you and keeping you here.”

“Yes,” Lily said. “Please, Mr. Turkle, tell us who set this up.”

Abe Turkle gave a big sigh. He looked at Lily and his fierce expression softened, just a bit. “Little gal, why don't you marry me and then I could look at those paintings for the rest of my life. I swear I'd never forge anything again.”

“I'm sorry, but I'm still married to Tennyson Frasier.”

“Not for long. I heard all about how you walked out on him.”

“That's right. But even so, the paintings belong in a museum, Mr. Turkle, not in a private collection somewhere, locked away, to be enjoyed by only one person.”

“They're the ones with all the money. They call the shots.”

Simon said, “Abe, she's divorcing Tennyson. She wants to fry that bastard's butt, not yours. You'd do yourself a favor if you helped us.”

Abe said slowly, one eyebrow arched up a good inch, “You've got to be joking, boyo.”

Lily stepped forward and laid her hand on Abe Turkle's massive shoulder. “We're not joking. You could be in danger. Listen, Tennyson tried to kill me, and I wondered, Why now? Do you know? Did something happen to make him realize I was a threat to him, before you'd finished copying all the paintings? Please, Mr. Turkle, tell us who hired you to copy my paintings. We'll help you stay safe.”

“That really so? Your old man tried to kill you? I'm sorry about that, but I don't have a clue what you're talking about. Both of you need to get out of here now.”

He was standing with his legs spread, his big arms crossed over his chest. “I'm sorry you were almost killed, but it doesn't have anything to do with me.”

“We know,” Simon said, “that this cottage is owned by the Frasiers. You're staying here. It isn't a stretch to figure it out.”

“I don't have anything to say about that. Maybe when this is over, the little gal will share some lunch with me, I'll marinate up some snails, then broil them. That's the best, you know.”

Lily shook her head, then walked to the easel. Abe didn't get in her way, didn't try to block her. She stopped and sucked in her breath. On the easel was a magnificent painting nearly finished—it was Diego Velázquez's
Toilet of Venus,
oil on canvas.

“It's incredible. Please, Mr. Turkle, don't let some collector take the original. Please.”

Abe shrugged. “I'm painting it for the fun of it. I'm in between jobs right now. No, you don't want to say it's because you took all the Sarah Elliott paintings away from the museum. Nah, don't say that. There's nothing going on here so I'm just having me some fun.”

Simon came around and looked at the nearly completed painting. “The original is in the National Gallery in London. I hope your compatriots elect to leave it there, Abe.”