Shopaholic to the Rescue (23 page)

The ceramics tent is far more crowded than before, and it takes me a little time to find Danny, sitting in the corner. He has his sketchbook open and is drawing an outfit, totally absorbed. I can see more sketches piled up by his feet, and it looks like he’s been at it awhile. Isn’t he keeping a lookout for Raymond at
all
?

“Danny!” I say, and he jumps. “Any sign of Raymond? Are you watching?”

“Sure.” He nods alertly. “I’m on it.” He focuses on the crowd in the tent for a few seconds—then his gaze drifts down and his pencil starts moving again.

Honestly. He is so
not
on it.

“Danny!” I plant a hand on his sketch. “What happened to staking out the tent? If Raymond walked past right now, would you notice?”

“Jeez, Becky!” Danny raises his eyes to heaven. “Face it, Raymond’s not coming. If he wanted to be here, he’d be here. All the other artists are here.” He gestures around the tent. “I chatted with them. They said Raymond hardly ever shows up.”

“Well, still. We should at least try.”

But Danny isn’t listening. He’s drawing a belted dress with a cape, which actually looks amazing.

“You carry on with your sketches,” I say with a sigh. “Don’t worry about Raymond. I’ll stake out the tent.”

“I’m off duty?” Danny’s eyes light up. “OK, I’m getting a drink. Catch you later.” He gathers up his sketches, stuffs them into his leather portfolio, and heads off.

As he disappears, I turn my attention to the people in the tent. My eyes are narrowed and I feel on red alert. It’s all very well, Danny saying Raymond won’t turn up—but what if he does? What if it’s all down to me to discover the secret? If I could do that, if I could actually
achieve
something…maybe I wouldn’t feel so pointless.

I check the photo of Raymond on my phone and scan the faces around me, but I can’t see him anywhere. I circle the tent a few times, weaving through the crowd, looking at all the pots and plates and vases. I quite like a cream-colored bowl with red splatters, but as I get near I see it’s called
Carnage,
and my stomach turns. Are those red splatters supposed to be…

Argh. Yuck. Why would you do that? Why would you call a bowl
Carnage
? God, potters are weird.

“You like it?” A slight, blond woman in a smock comes up. “It’s my favorite piece.” I can see a tag reading A
RTIST
on a cord round her neck, so I guess she made it. Which means she’s Mona Dorsey.

“Lovely!” I say politely. “And that one’s lovely too.” I point to a vase with big black random stripes, which I think Luke would like.

“That’s
Desecration
.” She smiles. “It comes in a set with
Holocaust
.”

Desecration
and
Holocaust
?

“Excellent!” I nod, trying to look unfazed. “Absolutely. Although I was just wondering, do you have anything with a slightly jollier title?”

“Jollier?”

“Happier. You know. Cheery.”

Mona looks blank. “I try to give my pieces meaning,” she says. “It’s all in here.” She hands me a pamphlet entitled “Wilderness Creative Festival: Guide to Artists.” “All the artists in the exhibition explain their life and working process. Mine is to depict the blackest, most morbid and nihilistic urges of human nature.”

“Right.” I gulp. “Er…great!”

“Were you interested in a piece?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I mean, I love the way they look. Only I’d prefer one that’s just a
tad
less depressing and nihilistic.”

“Let me think,” says Mona, considering. She gestures to a tall narrow-necked bottle. “This one is entitled
Hunger in a Plentiful World
.”

“Hmm.” I pull a thoughtful face. “Still
quite
depressing.”

“Or
Ruined
?” She picks up a green-and-black lidded pot.

“It’s really beautiful,” I hasten to assure her. “But it’s still a
teeny
bit of a gloomy title.”

“You think
Ruined
is a gloomy title?” She seems surprised, and I blink back in confusion. How could
Ruined
not be a gloomy title?

“A little bit,” I say at last. “Just…you know. To my ear.”

“Strange.” She shrugs. “Ah, now,
this
one is different.” She seizes a dark-blue vase with white brushstrokes. “I like to think this has a layer of hope beneath the despair. It was inspired by my grandmother’s death,” she adds.

“Oh, how touching,” I say sympathetically. “What’s it called?”

“Violence of Suicide,”
she announces proudly.

For a moment I can’t quite speak. I try to imagine having Suze for supper and saying,
You must look at my new vase,
Violence of Suicide
.

“Or there’s
Beaten,
” Mona is saying. “That’s quite lovely….”

“Actually, I’ll leave it for now.” I hastily back away. “But, you know…fab pots. Thanks so much for showing them to me. And good luck with the black and morbid human urges!” I add brightly, as I swivel on my heel.

Crikey. I had no
idea
pottery was so deep and depressing. I thought it was, you know, just clay and stuff. But on the plus side, a bright idea came to me while we were talking. I’ll read Raymond’s entry in the booklet about the artists and see if any clues come up.

I retreat to the side of the tent, perch myself on a handy stool, and flick through until I find him.
Raymond Earle, Local Artist.

Born in Flagstaff, Raymond Earle…blah blah…career in industrial design…blah blah…local philanthropist and supporter of the arts…blah…love of nature…blah…greatly inspired by Pauline Audette…has for many years corresponded with Pauline Audette…would like to dedicate this exhibition to Pauline Audette…

I turn the page and nearly fall off my stool in shock.

No way. No
way
.

That can’t be—

I mean…
Seriously?

As I stare at the page, I suddenly find myself laughing out loud. It’s too extraordinary. It’s too weird! But can we use this?

Of course we can, I tell myself firmly. It’s too good a chance. We
have
to use it.

A couple nearby is eyeing me oddly, and I beam at them.

“Sorry. I just saw something quite interesting. It’s a great read!” I wave the booklet at them. “You should get one!”

As they move away, I stay perched on my stool, glancing down at the booklet every so often, my mind spinning with ideas. I’m making plans upon plans. I’m getting little adrenaline rushes. And for the first time in ages, I’m feeling a kind of excitement. A determination. A positive spirit.

—

I stay in the tent for a while longer, till Mum and Janice come back. As I see them making their way through the mêlée, I can’t help blinking in astonishment. Mum is wearing a pink Stetson and a matching belt with silver studs all over it. Janice is lugging a banjo and wearing a fringed leather waistcoat. Both are flushed in the face, although I can’t tell if that’s from sunburn or rushing about or too much bourbon-laced iced tea.

“Any sign?” demands Mum as soon as she sees me.

“No.”

“It’s nearly seven!” Mum looks fretfully at her watch. “The day’s almost gone!”

“He might come along at the end of the exhibition,” I say. “You never know.”

“I suppose so.” Mum sighs. “Well, we’ll take over till it closes. Where are you going to go now?”

“I’ve got to shoot off and—” I stop myself mid-sentence. I can’t say,
I’ve got to support Suze while she confronts her blackmailing former lover.
I mean, Suze and my mum are close, but not
that
close.

“I’m going to see Suze,” I say at length. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK?” I smile at Mum, but she doesn’t see. She’s looking round the tent bleakly.

“What if we don’t find this Raymond?” As she turns back, her face has sagged into little creases of dejection. “Are we going to give up? Go home?”

“Actually, Mum, I’ve got a bit of a plan,” I say encouragingly. “I’ll tell you later. But now you should have a nice sit-down and relax.” I drag a couple of spare chairs from the side of the tent. “There we are. Why don’t I buy you each a lovely cool drink? Janice, is that a banjo?”

“I’m going to teach myself, love,” says Janice enthusiastically as she sits down. “I’ve always wanted to play the banjo. We can have a nice sing-along in the RV!”

If I had to picture the one thing
most
likely to get on Luke’s nerves as he’s driving, it’s a sing-along with a banjo.

“Er…great!” I say. “Sounds perfect. I’ll just get you both an iced tea.”

I quickly buy a pair of peach iced teas from the refreshment stand, give them to Mum and Janice, and then dash away. It’s very nearly seven, and I’m starting to feel horrible jitters in my stomach, so God only
knows
what Suze is feeling.

We’d agreed to meet at the hog-roast tent and then head together to the meeting spot. But as I round the corner of the tent, I receive a shock. Alicia is standing with Suze. Why is Alicia standing with Suze?

“Oh, hi, Alicia,” I say, trying to sound friendly. “I thought you had a meeting in Tucson.”

Meeting in Tucson
. Honestly. It sounds less and less likely, the more I say it.

“I thought I’d come on afterward and meet you,” says Alicia in sober tones. “And a good thing I did. This is unbelievable.”

“I’ve told Alicia,” says Suze tremulously.

“You mustn’t feel guilty, Suze.” Alicia puts a hand on Suze’s elbow. “Bryce is poison.”

I shoot Alicia a look of dislike. I hate people who say,
You mustn’t feel guilty
. What they really mean is:
I’m just reminding you that you should feel guilty
.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” I say briskly. “The important thing is to get rid of Bryce, once and for all. So we’d better go.”

“Alicia’s going to come for moral support too,” says Suze—and is it my imagination or is there an apologetic tone to her voice?

“Oh, right.” I force myself to smile. “Great! So you’re all set?” I look at Suze. “You know what you’re going to say?”

“I think so.” Suze nods.

“Hey, you guys! Here you are!” Danny’s voice hails us. We all swivel round to see him carrying a stick of cotton candy in one hand and an iced tea in the other, his portfolio wedged awkwardly under one arm. He comes to a halt and surveys us more closely. “Hey, what’s going on?”

If Suze can tell Alicia, then I can tell Danny, I decide. And he’ll find out, anyway.

“Bryce is here,” I say succinctly. “Suze is going to confront him. He’s been trying to blackmail her. Long story.”

“I
knew
it!” exclaims Danny. “I said that all along.”

“No, you didn’t!” I protest.

“I suspected it.” He turns to Suze. “You slept with him, right?”

“Wrong,” snaps Suze.

“But you fooled around. Does Tarkie know?”

“Yes. I’ve told him everything.”

“Oh, wow.” Danny raises his eyebrows, nibbling his cotton candy. “Kudos to you, Suze.”

“Thank you,” says Suze in dignified tones.

“But…wait.” I can see Danny’s mind working hard. “I thought Bryce was trying to rip off Tarkie for his new yoga center. You mean he’s trying to rip you off too? Husband
and
wife?”

“Apparently,” continues Suze frostily.

“He’s
good,
” says Danny with feeling. “Hey, Alicia, what do you make of all this? Looks like Bryce might just build that center. Ready for the competition?”

Danny’s so wicked. I know he’s just trying to wind Alicia up.

“He will not,” says Alicia coolly. “There is absolutely no way that
character
is going to threaten Golden Peace with some second-rate rival outfit. Believe me, Wilton will not let it happen.” She looks at her watch. “We should go.”

“Yes, we should,” Suze agrees.

“Let’s do it.” Danny nods.

“
You’re
not coming,” insists Suze.

“Sure I am,” says Danny, unfazed. “You can’t have too much moral support. You want an iced tea?” He hands her his plastic glass. “It’s practically a hundred percent bourbon.”

“Thanks,” says Suze reluctantly, and takes a sip. “Bloody hell!” she splutters.

“Told you.” Danny grins. “Want some more?”

“No, thanks.” Suze lifts her chin in determination. “I’m ready.”

—

As we march toward the meeting place, no one says anything. We’re a posse, flanking Suze, ready to defend her. And we’re not going to take any shit from Bryce. We’re going to stand firm, and resolute, and
not
get distracted by his looks—

Oh God, there he is. He’s leaning casually against a closed-up coffee stand, his skin all burnished and golden, with denim-blue eyes focused on something in the distance. He looks like a Calvin Klein model.
Mmmm
shoots through my brain before I can stop it. Argh. Bad, bad brain…

And then his eyes snap to, and his personality rushes into his face, and my
Mmmm
instantly withers. I can’t believe I ever saw him as anything but odious.

“Suze.” He seems taken aback to see all of us. “You brought reinforcements, huh?”

“Bryce, I have something to say to you,” Suze says, her voice trembling and her eyes fixed past his shoulder, just like I told her. “You can’t blackmail me. I’m not giving you any money, and I request that you leave my husband and me alone. There is nothing you can tell him that will damage me. I have been utterly frank and open with him. You have no power over me, and I request that you desist from contacting me.”

“
Desist
”
was my word. I think it sounds nice and legal.

I squeeze Suze’s hand encouragingly and whisper, “Brilliant!” She’s still staring fixedly into the middle distance, so I take the opportunity to sneak a quick look at Bryce. His face is calm, but I can tell from his eyes that he’s thinking.

“Blackmail?” he says at last, and breaks into a hearty laugh. “Now, that’s an extreme word. I ask you for a donation to a worthy cause and you call it blackmail?”