The Cold Blue Blood (29 page)
“Just exactly what do you mean by that?” she demanded.
“I mean you’re an artist, not a cop.”
She leaned her long frame against the truck and sighed, hugging the folio to her chest. “Please don’t be doing a number on my head right now, okay?”
“I’m totally serious. You should be doing this full time. You have to. Your technique needs refining, and you need to start thinking about color, although there’s a lot to be said for how the black and white captures the immediacy of a news photo. But just think of what’s in store for you. Look at Munch’s career. He got into nature painting, etching, printmaking, lithography … He also had a nervous breakdown in 1908 but, hey, that was him. Besides, he was Norwegian. The point is, you have a gift.”
“How do you know?” she asked, squinting at him uncertainly.
“I just do. But if you don’t believe me, let’s march on down the street to the Art Academy. They’ve got world-renowned artists teaching classes there. Classes you should be taking. We’ll show your portfolio to them. Come on,” he said, grabbing her by the wrist.
“Let go of me, Mitch.”
“They’ll tell you the same thing. I’m positive.”
“And I said let go!” she cried, wrenching her hand free of his. “I
really
don’t like people tugging at me.”
“Well, you’d better get used to it, because I come from a long line of great American tuggers. And I would
kill
to have one tenth of your talent. Christ, don’t you realize just how gifted you are?”
She stood there in wary silence, her eyes probing his. At that moment, she reminded Mitch of a big cat that suddenly found itself on unfamiliar turf—feet wide apart, hackles raised, ready to run Or to strike. Depending on what happened next.
“Tell me something,” Mitch said to her in a low, calm voice. “Exactly why did you decide to show it to me?”
“I’m beginning to ask myself that same question.”
“Okay, I think I know why you did.”
She let out a brief laugh. “Somehow I had a feeling you would.”
“You were hoping I’d tell you that you were no good—so you could forget about the whole thing. Not a chance. I won’t do it. You
are
good. And you know it. And you’re scared to death. I don’t blame you, believe me. Talent is a very frightening thing.”
“Now why do you say that?”
“Because if you have it, you have to do something with it. You owe it to yourself. Wasting talent is one of the deadly sins. Maybe it didn’t make the Bible’s top seven, but it’s right there at the top of mine. You
must
study and work and grow. And that’s where it gets scary. Because the people closest to you will think you’ve gone a little nuts. They will not understand why you’ve quit your job—”
“Wait, who’s quitting her job?”
“And they for sure will not approve, because it’s impulsive, impractical, selfish and all of those other things we’re taught not to be when we grow up. There’s big-time risk. Most of us never take that kind of a risk our whole lives. But most of us don’t have your kind of talent. Am I getting through to you, Lieutenant? You are
not
a cop. You are leading somebody else’s life.” He broke off, watching her closely. She looked shaken. In fact, she looked like she was about to be sick. “I’m not telling you anything you haven’t already thought of, am I?”
She considered this for a long moment before she said, “Nice words. Every single one of them.”
“But … ?”
“What makes you think there’s a
but
?”
“I hear a
but
.”
She glowered at him.
“But
art doesn’t pay the bills.”
“You’ll get by.”
“You’re dreaming. This is real life—not some Robin Williams movie where everybody hugs everybody at the end.”
Mitch shook his head at her. “If you don’t watch out you are going to make me really angry at you.”
“Why, are you a big Robin Williams fan?”
“Don’t play games with me, Lieutenant!”
Her eyes widened at him in surprise. “You’re totally serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Totally,” Mitch confirmed. “And unless you’re prepared to be as serious about it as I am I don’t ever want to discuss it with you again.”
“I don’t take well to bullying,” she warned him.
“I’m
trying
to encourage you.”
“Well,
try
a different way before that lip of yours suddenly starts bleeding again.” Four helmeted school girls on rollerblades went teetering past them on the sidewalk, giggling. She watched them. She seemed bothered and distracted. “Look, I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I appreciate you saying what you said. I’ve just got a lot on my mind right now, okay? Something I have to do. And I’m not looking forward to it.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She hesitated before she gave him a shake of her head.
“May I ask you something personal?”
“What is it?”
“Why did you draw me?”
She immediately tensed, clutching her folio tightly. “It was … an attempt to try to understand a certain situation.”
“What situation?”
She ducked her head, didn’t answer him. She seemed very uncomfortable.
“Are you saying that you think I’m dead inside?”
“No, no,” she said hastily. “Not at all. It was more about me than about you. I-I probably shouldn’t have shown that one to you.” She raised her eyes to his. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. None at all. You don’t ever have to …” Mitch swallowed, his Adam’s apple suddenly feeling as if it were the size of a musk melon. He gazed at her. She gazed back right at him, her eyes large and lustrous behind her horn-rimmed glasses. “I’m genuinely honored that you chose me to show your work to, Lieutenant,” he said. “It’s an experience that I’ll never forget.” Then Mitch got in his truck, started it up and eased away from the curb, glancing back at her in his rearview mirror.
She remained there on the curb, watching him pull away. She was still standing there, watching him, when he went around the bend by the public library and was gone.
AN ATTEMPT TO TRY to understand a certain situation?!
Jesus, how could she have said something so stiff, so impersonal, so outright lame? Des could not imagine as she piloted her slicktop up the Post Road toward Uncas Lake. Hell, compared to her the IRS sounded positively warm and fuzzy. What on earth had she been thinking? She’d wanted to tell him she was trying to sort out her feelings, that’s what. But she hadn’t wanted to spring that particular f-word out into the open air and so she got all bollixed up and wham, out came the Notification of Pending Audit.
I do not know how to talk to a man anymore. I am hopeless.
Des slowed her cruiser way down as she rolled past the seedy cottage where Tuck Weems had lived. He was scheduled for burial that day, same as Niles Seymour. Same minister. No doubt a lot of the same mourners. Dolly Seymour would be there, for one. That rusty pickup was still up on blocks in his driveway. No other vehicles were parked there. There was no actual sign that anyone was around.
Des kept on going past more shacks and bungalows, wondering if Mitch Berger were right.
Had
she wanted to hear that she was no good? She didn’t know. All she knew was that her life was starting to feel as if it were spinning out of control. It was a most unfamiliar feeling. It made her slightly dizzy.
The road began to climb steeply as it snaked its way around the lake. The resident trooper’s house was perched high on a hill overlooking the water. Tal Bliss had served two tours in the jungle in Vietnam. Sunlight and fresh air were a priority for him now. She deduced this from the way he’d added on a second storey with walls of glass and a wooden deck suspended all the way around. From the road, the place looked like a firefighter’s lookout station in the mountains.
His bedrooms were downstairs. The kitchen, dining room and living room were up on the second floor, the better to watch over his domain. He kept the house very neat and clean. Particularly his professional kitchen, which gleamed.
“My one and only indulgence,” he confessed, as he poured Des coffee.
There was a center island with a double sink and well-used copper pots hanging from a wrought-iron holder bolted into the ceiling. The countertops were granite, the cupboards pickled-pine. The range was a stainless-steel Jenn-Air with a down-draft vent, the refrigerator a top-of-the-line Sub-Zero. No walls enclosed Tal Bliss’s kitchen. It opened right out into the sun-drenched living and dining area.
On the stereo, Miles and Trane were putting the moves on “Kind of Blue,” filling the house with everything that was sweet and pure.
Dirty Harry, an immense orange-and-white male tabby, was out on the deck applying his death stare to a squirrel in a nearby cedar tree, his body poised, his tail swaying back and forth. The squirrel was chittering at him in derision. Down below, two men in a kayak were making their way slowly across the shimmering blue lake.
Lunch had been the resident trooper’s idea. When Des had mentioned that they needed to talk he had extended the invite. And she had accepted. When Tal Bliss offered to cook you something you did not say no. He wore a denim apron over a spotless white T-shirt while he was preparing it. Right now, he was finishing a fruit salad, his big tanned hands moving swiftly and expertly as he sectioned a pink grapefruit and halved strawberries. A quiche was baking in the oven, smelling marvelous.
“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”
“No trouble at all, Lieutenant,” he assured her. “I already had the pie shell on hand. I make a half-dozen of them at a time and freeze them. Just hope you like sage. I’ve fallen in love with it this year and am trying it in
everything.”
He tossed fresh blackberries and a cup of toasted walnuts into the salad, and began chopping up some mint. “We should really have ourselves a spicy Bloody Mary with this meal. Damned shame we’re on duty.”
“Damned shame.”
“Oh, I got a call from Bud Havenhurst,” he mentioned offhandedly. “Regarding what happened yesterday in New York.”
Somehow, this did not surprise Des.
“He felt a bit more at ease talking to a man about it, I guess,” he explained. “So I listened.”
“To what?” Des sipped her coffee.
“Apparently, Mandy gave Mitch Berger some form of playful shove on the subway platform as a train was pulling in. All in fun, was how Bud described it.”
“And just exactly what’s so damned fun about it?”
“Bud said that she considers danger to be a powerful aphrodisiac,” Bliss replied, coloring more than a little. He wasn’t so comfortable talking to a woman about this either. “She feels when someone has been mortally frightened that he or she is more susceptible to achieving a heightened level of sexual arousal. It seems she intended to seduce him later that evening. And this was simply her idea of …”
“ … Foreplay?”
“According to Bud, she would have pulled Mitch back if there was even a remote chance he might fall.” Bliss had a pained expression on his face. He was hating this. He paused to check on his quiche in the oven. It was done. He removed it and placed it on a rack, fragrant and golden brown. “She was strictly playing a game.”
Des shook her head at him skeptically. “Are you trying to kid me, Trooper?”
“Why, no, Lieutenant.”
“Good, because there is no such thing as
playful
when it comes to pushing an unsuspecting individual in front of an oncoming train. They teach kindergarteners that. And when an adult in full command of her faculties does it, that’s called reckless endangerment. In Mandy Havenhurst’s case it might even qualify as assault with intent. She has a
track
record
for inflicting bodily harm on men. I mean, come on, this is
so
not sane.”
“I know, I know,” Bliss agreed quickly. “Believe me, I’m not excusing it. Or condoning it. I’m merely reporting what Bud told me. And you’d better get ready, because there’s more.” He hesitated, clearing his throat. “Bud was there when she hit on Mitch at the apartment.”
“What do you mean he was there?”
“I mean he was listening in the bedroom the whole time. Watching, too, I imagine. Another little game they play. It … excites both of them.”
“They get off on making each other jealous—is that it?”
“Precisely.”
“And what does he … ?”
“He tells her he’s still sleeping with Dolly.”
“Is he?”
“I’m quite confident he isn’t.” Bliss sighed, puffing out his cheeks. “What can I tell you—it’s not my idea of a healthy, normal relationship. But maybe there is no such thing as a healthy, normal relationship. What do you think, Lieutenant?”
“I think that I could be very happy never knowing this stuff about other people.”
“That makes two of us,” he agreed, smiling at her faintly. He removed his apron and wiped his hands on a towel. The stomach under his T-shirt was flat and hard. He was in excellent shape for a man over fifty. “Shall we eat?”
They ate out on the deck at a redwood table. The quiche was delicious—its crust flaky, the sage-scented filling of egg, bacon and gruyere rich and savory. And the fruit salad somehow managed to be sweet, tangy and nutty all at the same time. The man was truly gifted. Des told him so.
She did not tell him that she had almost no appetite.
Dirty Harry moseyed over and sniffed her ankles desultorily, offering no sign that he recalled it was she who had rescued him from out behind that bar in Ansonia, where drunks were throwing beer bottles at him. She who had nursed him and fed him. She who had given him a loving home for nearly three months until she had placed him with Bliss. Not so much as a hello. Not that Des expected any gratitude. He was, after all, a cat.
The kayakers were still making their way across the lake. The sound of their carefree laughter carried extraordinarily well off of the water. It seemed as if they were only a few feet away.
“What can I help you with?” Bliss asked her as he cleaned his own plate.
