Trophy Widow (16 page)

Chapter Seventeen

I was at my desk working on a draft of an appellate brief when Jacki announced that I had a visitor. I looked up in surprise.

“Really? Who?”

“Sebastian Curry.” She stepped inside my office and pulled the door closed behind her. “We're talking hot,” she whispered.

I smiled. “Really?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh, yes.”

I touched my hair. “Then show him in.”

A moment later, he was standing at my door.

“Miss Gold?”

Ellen McNeil had described him as eye candy. That was an understatement. Sebastian Curry was a hot fudge sundae with whipped cream and, well, nuts. He was tall and lean and athletic—broad shoulders, narrow torso, slim hips. He had on a black turtleneck, tan cargo pants, and black army boots. Dreadlocks framed a strong, angular face. His skin was the color of milk chocolate and his eyes were emerald-green.

He was literally breathtaking, as I discovered when I spoke. “Please come in,” I said in a hoarse voice.

As he approached my desk, he gave me a pleasant smile that revealed perfect white teeth. “I'm Sebastian Curry.”

We shook. My hand disappeared inside his.

He took a chair facing my desk. “I should have called first. I'm meeting someone for lunch over at Bar Italia and was early so I decided to give it a try. Thanks for seeing me. I've really been wanting to talk to you.” He had a friendly, low-key manner.

“What's on your mind?” My voice was back to normal, thank goodness.

“I wanted to find out if it was really true about the show.”

“The show?”

“My paintings. I heard there might be a show of my paintings.”

His hopeful expression made me feel guilty. It's one thing to mislead a bunch of wealthy purchasers, especially when most of them have no discernible emotional attachment to paintings they apparently bought solely as investments. But it's an entirely different thing to mislead the artist, and especially one in Sebastian Curry's circumstances. From what Ellen McNeil told me, his career had been in the dumps for years.

I said, “We're looking at several local artists. You're one of them. We're not yet sure whether there'll be a show. It's too early to say.”

“When will you know for sure?”

I shrugged. “Another month or so.”

“Who's the organization?”

“It's a new group of artists and gallery owners.”

“Cool. What's their name?”

I still couldn't remember the name Ellen and I had concocted. “They haven't picked an official name, yet. How did you hear about it?”

That question flustered him. He sat back in the chair, eyes blank. “Well, I think someone—I can't remember who—someone must have told me—said you were, you know, looking at my paintings.”

“We did look at several of your paintings,” I said. “Mostly, we saw ones that were sold several years ago by the 309 Gallery.”

“Right. They sold a whole bunch.”

“Samantha Cummings ran that gallery, didn't she?”

“She sure did.”

“Did you know her well?”

“I guess you could say that she and I—well, what do you mean?”

“Just curious. She sold a lot of your paintings.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, I knew her, sure. No big deal.”

“How did she end up handling so much of your work?”

“Does that matter?”

I smiled, trying to keep things low-key. “You seem to have been her most successful artist. I thought maybe the two of you had a special relationship.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like maybe you were in art school together, or maybe she met you when you were just getting started.” I offered a cheerful smile. “Something like that.”

“Maybe she just happened to like my work.”

“That makes sense,” I told him, even though it didn't.

I tried to steer the conversation toward topics that would seem less threatening than his relationship with Samantha Cummings. He told me that he was still painting but hadn't been having much luck with sales or galleries lately. He did occasional modeling work—mostly fashion shoots for the local department stores—and waited tables at a restaurant.

“I work nights. I try to keep my days free to paint.” He hesitated, almost sheepish. “Maybe your group would like to look at some of my newer work.”

“I'm sure they would.”

He took his wallet out of his back pocket. “Here's my card.”

“Great.” I took the card.

“My studio's in a loft on Washington Avenue. I live there, too. I'm usually up and around by ten in the morning. Just drop by someday and I'll show you my work.”

“I'll do that.”

“And be sure to let me know what your group decides.” He checked his watch and stood up. “I better go. Thanks for seeing me.”

“Sure. One last thing, Sebastian. Are you represented by an agency?”

“No. Why?”

“Just so we know who we need to deal with. What about the older paintings? The ones Samantha Cummings handled for you.”

“What about them?”

“Wasn't there an agency involved back then?”

He looked puzzled. “An agency?”

“Millennium Management Services?”

His demeanor cooled. “How do you know about that?”

“The name showed up on some of the records.”

“What records?”

I pretended that I was trying to remember. “Something with the paintings. I can't recall. I just remember seeing the name. I thought maybe they were your agent.”

“No. They never were.” He shook his head adamantly. “I had nothing to do with them. Ever.”

“Who were they?”

“I don't know. Look, that part was none of my business. I know nothing about them. Nothing. I never did.”

“Did they work for the gallery?”

“I just told you I don't know anything about them. They had nothing to do with me. You have to understand that, Miss Gold. Nothing.”

“I hear you.”

“Nothing.”

“Right.” I nodded. “Nothing. Got it.”

***

It's obvious, Rachel.”

“What's obvious?”

“He was
shtupping
her.”

“Oh, come on, Benny. According to you, everyone's
shtupping
everyone.”

“I'm serious. Not only that, I'd say that from the way he reacted to your questions he must have been doing her even after she got engaged to Michael Green.”

“What? How can you say that?”

He paused with the chopsticks in front of his mouth and shrugged. “Because it makes perfect sense.” He popped the shrimp in his mouth and reached for his beer.

Benny and I were eating Chinese take-out at my kitchen table. I'd been working late at the office when Benny called from the law school, where he'd just finished judging several rounds of moot court competition. We agreed to meet at my house for dinner, with Benny to bring the food and me to bring the beer and dessert. I picked up a six-pack of Pete's Wicked Ale and two pints of Ben & Jerry's on my way home. Benny, who should never order take-out on an empty stomach, arrived with four egg rolls, a pint of hot-and-sour soup, and four entrees: twice-cooked pork, Szechwan beef, Hunan shrimp, and kung pao chicken. Not that he'd have trouble finishing his portion—three egg rolls and three entrees fell somewhere between a heavy snack and a light meal for Benny. Indeed, we were down to the Hunan shrimp and my kitchen table was strewn with empty white take-out containers. Ozzie sat at attention in the corner, his eyes on his beloved pal Benny, who'd already tossed him half of the last egg roll, which Ozzie caught on the fly with his mouth. Although Ozzie wasn't picky when it came to Chinese takeout, you could tell he had his hopes pinned on a share of the Hunan shrimp.

Benny took a big chug of beer and set the bottle back on the table. “Look at what we know,” he said. “Start with Sebastian Curry. As an artist, the guy is for shit, right? Even I can tell that, and I've got the keen aesthetic taste of a sack of hammers. No gallery would touch his crap until Samantha arrives on the scene. Not only does she touch his stuff. She becomes his goddamn patron saint—stocking her gallery with that schlock, selling it for fifteen, twenty, twenty-five times what it's worth. The woman was clearly promoting the living shit out of that guy. And remember, we're not talking Vincent van Gogh and we're not even talking Jack van Gogh. We're talking Jack Shit, and you know what that tells me? That tells me we got something more going on here than the usual artist/gallery relationship. That tells me that Natty Dreadlocks was pumping more than just her balance sheet. The proof is when you asked him about his relationship with her. What happens? He gets all flustered, right?”

“True,” I conceded.

“What's that tell you? If once upon a time they had an affair, what's the big deal? But his reaction tells me we might not just be talking nooky. We might be talking naughty nooky.”

I gave him a look. “What in the world is naughty nooky?”

“Look at the time period. She's peddling his schlocky paintings the entire time she's engaged to Michael Green. Maybe the reason Sebastian got defensive was because he was doing her the whole time—right up until Green got killed.”

It sounded improbable, but no more improbable than any other scenario. “Maybe.”

He shrugged. “You got a better explanation?”

“Not yet.”

“Ask him. He gave you his card. Go over to his loft one morning and ask him straight-out.”

“He's pretty uptight about it. I'd rather ask Samantha, assuming I can ever figure out a way to talk to her in private.

“Good luck. Her lawyer's not going to let you talk to her.”

“He might. You never know. It's worth a try. I've got plenty to ask her besides her relationship with Sebastian Curry.”

“Such as?”

“Such as what's the deal with Millennium Management Services? You think Sebastian got uptight when I asked him about Samantha? You should have seen his reaction when I mentioned Millennium Management.”

“What makes you think she'll know any more about it?”

“She has to. She was the one who paid Millennium. I also want to find out more about Billy Woodward. He's the number one item on my list.”

“The guy who committed suicide in front of her town house?”

“Yep. Angela's mysterious John. I spoke to her about him again this morning. The poor woman calls me every day now. She's obsessed with him.”

“Can you blame her?”

“At least I was able give her some new information.”

“What?”

“My investigator Charlie confirmed that Woodward's mother wasn't in the hospital when Angela met him. She was living in a trailer park in southern Illinois, somewhere on the outskirts of Metropolis. Still does. Claims she's never been sick a day in her life. Also claims she hadn't heard from her son in more than a decade. Charlie thinks she's telling the truth about that. Apparently, she didn't even know he was dead until Charlie told her.”

“Did the guy have any brothers or sisters?”

“One older sister. She died in an auto accident when Woodward was in high school.”

“Who else knew him?”

“I've got one name for sure. Harry Silver.”

“Who's Harry Silver?”

“He's the head of a little company across the river in Sauget. I've got an appointment to see him tomorrow morning.”

“What kind of company?”

“It's called Pinnacle Productions.”

Benny frowned. “Pinnacle? What is it?”

I blushed slightly. “I believe they're in what is known as the adult entertainment industry.

“Strip clubs?”

“Movies.”

“No shit? Porno? Right here in River City?”

“They operate in an industrial park off Route Three.”

“Whoa. So this guy—the dude who killed himself—he was in those films?”

“In the films, around the films, behind the films. He apparently worked for Pinnacle for a few years. Harry Silver knew him fairly well. He's willing to talk to me. He agreed to meet me tomorrow.”

“Hey,” Benny said with a grin, “make sure you give Harry my phone number. You tell him to give me a buzz if he ever needs the expert services of a fluff boy.”

Being Benny's pal means expanding your vocabulary in ways not measured by the verbal portion of the SATs—from the alternative meaning of “pearl necklace” to the job category known as “fluff girl.”

I smiled and shook my head. “I hate to break your heart, boychik, but I don't think they use fluff boys.”

He put his hand over his heart in mock dismay. “I am shocked. Women have needs, too. You tell him that when it comes to the fine art of fluffing, Benny Goldberg is a big supporter of women's rights.”

“I'll be sure to tell him that.”

“I'm serious, woman. You tell him that in ten minutes I'll have his coldest porno queen leaning back with a sigh and saying, ‘Thank you, Big Daddy.'”

He peered into the carton of Hunan shrimp and then glanced over at Ozzie, whose tail immediately started flopping. Benny looked back at me. “You want any of this shrimp?”

I shook my head. “I'm
plotzing
.”

He stifled a rumbling belch. “I'm starting to get a little full myself. Better save some room for your ice cream.” He turned toward Ozzie. “You in the mood for a little Hunan action, Oz? This stuff'll put lead in your pencil.”

Ozzie gave a jubilant bark and dashed over to Benny.

“In his bowl, Professor,” I ordered.

Benny patted him on the head. “You hear Miss Manners? Time you and I show a little class, eh? Stay right here, my man.”

Ozzie watched as Benny went over to his bowl and used his chopsticks to plop the rest of the Hunan shrimp into it. He turned toward Ozzie, who sat at attention, his eyes fixed on Benny, who glanced at me. I nodded.