Not A Girl Detective (18 page)

been an aesthetic statement. We went down a couple of steps to the living room, which had been consecrated to two very large abstract paintings. There was a tufted white leather chaise in the middle of the room, but otherwise it was unfurnished.

Mitchell went to disengage our host from a woman

wrapped in a formfitting white dress. It might’ve been sterile gauze. Hard to tell. He gestured in our direction.

Farrell took Mitchell’s package, looked over at us, and grinned. That’s when Lael began radiating pheromones.

I was getting hot and twitchy just standing next to her.

This wouldn’t do at all. I tried to pull her toward the bar cart in the next room, but the damage had been done.

Farrell was heading our way.

“He’s trouble,” I whispered in her ear.

She was breathing so hard she couldn’t hear me.

He walked straight up to Lael and looked at her, his

eyes translucent, glittering even. Oh, please. She wasn’t going to fall for that. His longish dark hair was slicked back and he was wearing a black suit that fit him like a glove. His white shirt was unbuttoned one button too

many, a ploy obviously designed to put his chest hair on display. I would have recommended a depilatory, if

asked.

He tore his gaze away from Lael and addressed yours

truly. “I think we saw each other at Edgar’s memorial service.” He put out his hand.

“Did we?” I shook it. Of course. He’d been the one

wearing dark glasses, the one who’d arrived with

Mitchell. “Yes, you’re right. It’s so nice to see you again.”

“I’m so pleased you could be here.”

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I wondered if he said that to all his trespassers. Farrell shook hands with Bridget, too, and they chatted for a moment. It turned out that they knew some people in common, and he was familiar with her store. I looked

over at Mitchell, who was standing at his right elbow.

Poor guy. Born to be the toady of a powerful man.

“Mitchell,” said Farrell, shaking him off expertly,

“get Cece and Bridget something to drink.” He took

Lael by the hand. “I want this one all to myself.”

Mitchell watched them go, then fabricated an excuse

to get away from us. Bridget and I found ourselves marooned under a massive color photograph of the inte-

rior of a 99 Cent store.

We stood there for a while not talking. Every snort of laughter and clinking ice cube echoed loudly, making

conversation between us somehow redundant. The

party had come with its own sound track.

Finally, I said, “I think there’s some connection.

We’re getting close. I can tell. It’s good we’re here.

Very good. Except for Lael. That part’s very bad.”

Bridget shook her head. “You don’t know the half of

it. A girl who used to shop with me once went with him for a weekend to the Hamptons. He picked her up from

the airport and when they got to the car he announced that she couldn’t put her bags in the trunk because there was something already in there. About an hour into the drive, she was feeling kind of cramped with her things on her lap. When she asked him what was so special in the trunk, he pulled over and told her the weekend was over. He left her standing by the side of the road.”

“Omigod.”

“He’s cold-blooded,” she said, “like a snake.”

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I scanned the room for them. They were nowhere in

sight.

“Why are we here again?” Bridget asked.

“You were the one racing out of the car.”

“I had no idea who lived here.”

“I think Mitchell thinks we know something. Now

I’m wondering if it was Mitchell and Asher Farrell who were the ones who let themselves into my house. What

did they want?”

“What do you mean, ‘now you’re wondering’? Who

did you think it was before?”

I didn’t answer her.

“Since we’re here, let’s just see if anybody knows

anything about anything.”

Bridget put her hands on her hips. “It’s not like we

can just ask around.”

“I don’t see why not,” I said, turning on my heel.

“Follow me.”

We joined a couple standing in front of a fireplace in the dining room. They looked old and dignified.

“So he fucked you over, too?” asked the white-haired

matron.

The grandfatherly type in gray flannel nodded. “He

fucked me over, too.”

“I gather we’re talking about Asher Farrell,” I said.

“Run, young lady,” Grandpa said. “Run, don’t walk.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“I’m going to drink up all his scotch.” The woman

banged her cane on the floor for emphasis.

“The good stuff,” the man added.

Bridget cut to the chase. “How did he really make all his money?”

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“Selling nudie pictures to the Japanese,” said the old man. “He’s got inventory like you wouldn’t believe.

Tits and ass. That’s his bread and butter.”

“He doesn’t pay his artists,” the woman noted.

“He says, ‘It’s a Canadian bank holiday, so the

check’s delayed.’ ”

“He borrows your Rauschenberg for a show, then

sells it to someone else.”

“Or uses it as collateral for a loan, then defaults on the loan, and the bank gets it.”

“He screws with your head.”

“He doesn’t call you back.”

“He’s morally dyslexic.”

“He’s a mad monk, like Rasputin.”

“But what an interesting mind.”

They both nodded.

“He loves art.”

They nodded again.

“To art,” the woman said.

“And twelve-year-old single malt,” the man chortled.

Bridget pulled me aside. “He ought to start a cult.”

“Let’s get Lael and go.”

“Fine.”

Bridget went in one direction and I headed in an-

other. I bumped into Farrell at the bottom of the stairs.

“We’re going to be leaving now,” I said. “It was very kind of you to have us. Thank Mitchell for me, too.”

“I will.” He smoothed back his already smooth hair.

“Mitchell tells me you’re a scholar of mystery writers.”

“Yes.”

“And that you’re an expert on Nancy Drew.”

“I’m working on it.”

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“Don’t be modest. Mitchell’s a fool about some

things but smart about others.”

“Can you tell me where Lael is?”

“She’s in the powder room,” he replied, indicating a

closed door behind us.

We waited in silence.

“I hear you like tasteful nudes,” I said finally.

“I prefer tasty ones.”

I banged on the powder-room door. “Lael, hurry up.”

He rubbed his hands across his lips. “So who’s been

talking to you about me, Ms. Caruso?”

“No one.”

“No one?”

“Actually, it was Edgar.”

“Too bad about Edgar. He was a wonderful man.”

“Yes, he was.” Nudie pictures. That’s how Asher Far-

rell had gotten rich. Of course. He must’ve been the one who’d found the portrait of Grace Horton and sold it to Edgar. That put him smack in the middle of whatever it was that was going on.

“Edgar showed me the painting you found for him.”

“A beauty. I bid on it at auction.”

He pondered my face as if it were a work of art he

was considering. Then he said, “Edgar was proud of his things. He liked to show them off. Did you see the

knives and fans?”

I nodded.

“He was generous, too. With his time. His money. He

was always giving things away. Perhaps he gave you a

small token?”

“Nope. No token. No token I can think of.”

Lael opened the door, looking flushed.

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“There you are,” I said. “We have to go. Early day

tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to worry,” she said. “Asher’s going

to drive me home later.”

He gave me a smile. “Good night. Sleep tight.” He

smiled again, then steered Lael away from me.

18

He won’t be in until eleven,” explained the girl

with the twitch seated at the front desk of Asher Farrell Fine Art.

“I guess that gives me fifteen minutes to look

around.”

Oh, Lael.

Last night I’d called her every hour on the hour until around three, when I’d given up and gone to bed. I’d

tried her again this morning, after my shower. She still wasn’t picking up, but at least her machine had been

turned on, which I was hoping meant she’d gotten

home safely.

“Do you have an appointment? I don’t remember

seeing anything in the book. . . .” The girl wrinkled her forehead, like it was something she’d recently learned.

What to do when confronting an unexpected visitor.

She opened an expensive leather folio.

“Oh, I’m not in there,” I said with a smile. “Asher

told me no appointments were necessary.”

“Of course not,” she said quickly. One wouldn’t want

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to alienate the boss’s potential bedmates. “Please, have a look around. The show opened last night. It’s already sold out.”

“Great.”

She cleared her throat. “The artist is thrilled. First big solo show. Mr. Farrell’s discovery. He has such an eye.” Her chest was heaving with the effort.

I glanced up at the name stenciled onto the wall by

the door. Lari Uklanski. “I’m a big fan of Lari’s. Her work is amazing.”

“His work.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Of course.” She smoothed down her black skirt.

“Can I offer you a catalog?”

“No, thank you. I’m dyslexic.”

She blinked a few times, then returned to her seat.

The gallery was large and cavernous, like Farrell’s

house. But the art was more modest in scale: maybe

two dozen black-and-white snapshots pushpinned to

the wall.

I wandered around, looking at the images. They

showed models in various stages of undress—yanking

up their panty hose, scooping their boobs into their

bras, scratching their pointy knees. Lari Uklanski was really going out on a limb. Gorgeous girls in their underwear. Very daring.

I stopped in front of a photograph of a girl of about sixteen applying false eyelashes. It had been shot at an oblique angle so that she seemed to be falling out of her chair. I looked at her face more closely. She had the faintest trace of a black eye.

“Posing is a profession,” said a voice behind me.

“Sometimes the mask slips and the pose is revealed.”

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“You’re very cryptic this morning,” I said, turning

around. Farrell’s hair was slick even in daylight. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and his briefcase in the

other.

“You keep surprising me, Ms. Caruso. To what do I

owe this pleasure?”

“I’m very interested in photography.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.”

“And what do you think of the show?”

“I think it’s exploitative.”

“That’s not what the
L.A. Times
says.” I followed him over to the front desk. He put his things down and picked up the arts section. He riffled through the pages. “Ah.

Here we go. It says, and I quote, ‘Uklanski offers a poetic rumination on the vampirism of the fashion industry.’ ”

“Let me guess, a man wrote that.”

“Actually, it was a woman.” He gave the newspaper

back to the twitchy girl, who traded it for a stack of phone messages. It was like choreography. He flipped

through the little pink pages. “I have a lot to take care of this morning.”

“Maybe you should get up earlier.”

“What can I do for you?”

I pulled a manila envelope out of my purse. “I’ve

started a photography collection. I’d like to show you my first acquisition. I need a professional opinion.”

“I’m afraid I don’t do appraisals.”

“It’s something Edgar gave me.” That earned me his

undivided attention. “Turns out I’d forgotten all about it.”

He stared at the envelope in my hand. He may have

had an eye, but he didn’t have x-ray vision.

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“I’ve got a few minutes, I suppose. Why don’t we go

into my office? It’s more private.”

“Good idea.”

“Will you be taking calls, Mr. Farrell?” the girl asked.

“No.”

We walked down a short hallway, past a large open

space lined with wooden racks holding paintings of all sizes, tightly wrapped in plastic.

“Bet you wouldn’t want to let a dirty old man in a

mackintosh near that room,” I said.

“I have everything in there from Roman dynastic

busts to the first issue of
Spider Man
.”

“I didn’t know your taste was so eclectic.”

“I like what I like. But I have whatever you need.”

He shut his office door behind me.

The room had a glass desk in the middle, with a big

leather swivel chair on his side and a small wooden

chair on mine. That ploy was about as subtle as a

whoopee cushion.

He could barely contain himself. “Let’s see what

you’ve got.”

I pulled the black-and-white photograph out of the

envelope and placed it on his desk.

It was a strange picture, I saw that now. A dark-haired woman wearing a slim white dress was posed mid-stride. She didn’t look frightened, not exactly—watchful, perhaps. Her left hand reached beyond the edge

of the picture; her right hand dissolved into a circle of white light. Behind her was a gray wall, with a chest of drawers pushed up against it, and toward the right-hand side of the frame, the barest hint of a painting hanging on the wall. The print itself was scratched and bent a lit-N O T