You Might As Well Die (8 page)

Snath nodded, flashing his smile again. “Very well. Please forgive the disastrous appearance of my humble chambers.” He glided quickly toward the chairs facing his desk, deftly lifted the piles of canvases from them, and gently stood them against the others on the floor. He gestured for them to sit down. “What is it you would like to know?”

“The obvious,” Dorothy said, taking a seat. “Why did MacGuffin commit suicide?”

Snath descended into his chair and spoke gravely. “To improve his sales, of course.”

Dorothy glanced at Benchley. Was this some sort of joke?

Snath maintained a somber expression, then finally cracked a smile. “Pardon the gallows humor. I’m speaking in jest, of course.”

“Oh, sure.” Benchley chuckled nervously. He didn’t sound at all sure.

“Despite the sudden interest in Mr. MacGuffin’s works, I cannot fathom why he did what he did, God have mercy on his eternal soul,” Snath said gravely. “Frankly, my association with Mr. MacGuffin was a business relationship rather than what you might call a personal one.”

“You didn’t get along?” Dorothy asked.

“Oh yes, certainly we did. Very cordial, I assure you. But we only discussed matters of business, and even then we only met in person on occasion. You see, most of my business is easily conducted through letters and correspondence, perhaps a telephone call now and then.” Snath leaned forward. His hospitality showed signs of strain. “What kind of background story are you writing exactly?”

Dorothy and Benchley glanced at each other again. Why did they never get their story straight ahead of time? Dorothy wondered.

She recovered quickly. “We’re writing the story everyone wants to read. That is, what kind of man
was
Ernie MacGuffin? A lot of people seemed to know him—and yet, no one seemed to know him, if you know what I mean.”

“Indeed I do. Please continue.”

“In life, Ernie was . . . Well, let’s face it—he was dull as a rock. And a bit of a nuisance,” she said. “Hell, he was a pain in the ass. But in death—in death he’s become a man of mystery.”

Snath arched his black eyebrows. “I like that—a man of mystery. That’s very compelling. Be sure to include that in your article when you write about the auction. What else can I tell you about him?”

“Tell us about his career before he died.”

“A very workmanlike painter, and I mean that as a compliment. A very pragmatic man, especially for an artist. These temperamental artists so rarely appreciate the financial side of the art business. But not Mr. MacGuffin. He understood that the art business is, well, a business, after all.”

“How sensible of him,” Dorothy said dryly.

“Just look at that cover illustration of the two gunslingers there.” Snath pointed. “He did that in less than two days.
Old West Magazine
had hired another illustrator—some hack who didn’t deliver on deadline. I telegrammed Ernie—Mr. MacGuffin—on a Friday afternoon. On Monday morning, he delivered this. We demanded the magazine double the fee, of course, because it was a rush job.”

“How much was the fee for that one,” Dorothy asked, “just out of curiosity?”

“Oh, a hundred dollars, I believe. But don’t quote me on that. His typical fee for such an illustration was fifty.”

A measly fifty,
Dorothy thought. She knew Neysa McMein got hundreds for her illustrations for the covers of more prestigious magazines. “And how much will it be auctioned for?”

Snath grinned. “How much? The sky’s the limit. The
minimum
bid for that one is eight hundred. But that’s a MacGuffin classic. I expect it will eventually fetch at least fifteen hundred. Maybe two thousand.”

That made Dorothy indignant. Now that MacGuffin was dead, who would get the money for his work? Not the artist himself; that was for sure.

Snath continued. “But these—these genre works were MacGuffin’s bread and butter. No, his much more valuable works are these over here. See these?”

The lawyer went to the paintings resting by the tall bookcases. He flipped through them, holding up one after another. Most of them were predominantly cobalt blue with a swirling effect—as though MacGuffin had adopted the look of Van Gogh’s
Starry Night
and gotten far too carried away with it, Dorothy thought. Many were figures. Several were nudes. A few of them looked like Midge MacGuffin, Dorothy thought. Benchley looked at her knowingly—he was thinking the same thing.

Snath briefly held up one nude—an image of a slender woman with a platinum blond permanent wave. But the face was indistinct—like the others, this painting was impressionist in style. Before Dorothy could get a better look, Snath had put it down and held up a different one, a cubist-style abstract of what might be the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Aren’t they wonderful?” Snath said effusively. “During Ernie’s lifetime, I never could get a gallery to show them. But his death—pardon my candor—changed everything. Thursday night’s auction will be to a standing-room-only house. Some of these more serious works could fetch upward of three thousand. Maybe five. Maybe even more.” Snath was almost bubbling with excitement.

Inwardly, Dorothy was furious. She mentally willed Woody to pee all over the paintings. But Woody just lay quietly at her feet. That dog never came through when you needed him to. Just like a man.

“Again, don’t quote me on those figures. They’re merely estimates,” Snath said, sitting down and leaning back contemplatively in his leather chair, looking heavenward. “Ah, Mr. MacGuffin would be proud if he could only see what his career had become. Such joy.” He awoke from his reverie and leaned forward again. “So, this article will appear in the next issue of
Vanity Fair
? And when will that be available? Probably not tomorrow, I gather. Thursday, then, the day of the auction? That’s quite soon, isn’t it?”

Dorothy and Benchley realized their mistake. To come out in print,
Vanity Fair
took three weeks from when they sent the issue to the printer to when it hit the newsstands.

This realization began to dawn on Snath as well. He rose from his chair and moved quickly toward the door, blocking their exit. The warmth disappeared from his voice. “How is it possible to print a magazine in so short a time?”

At the ominous tone in Snath’s voice, Woody huddled nervously against Dorothy’s ankles.

“Actually,” she said with a confidence she did not feel, “this article will appear in a brand-new magazine,
The New Yorker
. The first issue will come out very soon.”

“This is
not
for
Vanity Fair
? And this won’t be printed in time for the auction on Thursday?” Snath growled, his fists clenching. “You have the arrogance to come in here and waste my valuable time?”

Benchley mumbled, “We may be wasting your time, but we’re certainly not being arrogant about it.”

Snath had quickly become enraged. “You vermin! You cretins! You scum! Who put you up to this?”

He began ranting about a rival auctioneer or rival art dealer. Dorothy couldn’t tell—she could barely follow what he said. She glanced at Benchley, who seemed to be amused rather than intimidated.

“I’ll crush you!” Snath ranted. “God help me, I’ll crush you into the ground. You vile—”

There was a knock on the door. Snath spun around. “Not now!”

The door opened anyway. A dapper young British man entered. He wore a finely tailored Savile Row suit, an Eton striped repp tie, and expensive black leather brogues.

He looked so slick, he nearly glistened, Dorothy thought. She knew the man on sight: Jasper Welsh. He was an editor for Waterloo Books, a disreputable publisher of tawdry dime novels and dubious get-rich-quick guides.

Snath calmed himself instantly. He smoothed his hair and tugged at his shirt cuffs. “Ah, yes, Welsh,” he purred. “Do come in.”

“Am I interruptin’?” Welsh said. “Well, who do we ’ave’ere? ’Allo, Mrs. Parker. Mr. Benchley.”

For all his phony upper-crust affectation, Dorothy thought, he couldn’t quite lose his coarse East End of London accent.

Before she could respond, Snath turned on him viciously. “You’re acquainted with these infidels? These charlatans?”

“Indeed I am,” Welsh said brightly. “Are you ready to make a book deal, Mrs. Parker? My offer still stands. Beggars can’t be choosers, you know.”

Several months ago, Jasper Welsh had asked her to put her poems together for a book, for which he offered her a paltry hundred dollars plus ten cents for each book sold. She’d be rich—in about a thousand years of steady sales.

“Forget it, Jasper. I’m destined to remain a beggar,” she said. “Speaking of beggars, what are you doing here?”

“Mr. Snath and myself ’ave a major business deal we’re workin’ on,” he said smugly. “Somethin’ very big in the pub-lishin’ world. A masterstroke, if I say so myself. Mind you—Oh my God!”

God? Well, maybe He answers our prayers after all,
Dorothy thought as she looked down and saw her dog peeing on the man’s fancy leather shoes.

While Snath and Welsh stood stunned, Dorothy quickly pulled Woody and Benchley away. They hurried out of the office without another word.

O
nce outside of Snath’s dilapidated office building, Dorothy stopped on the busy sidewalk and searched in her purse for a treat for Woodrow Wilson.

“Good boy,” she said as the dog snatched a piece of dry kibble from her hand.

With relief, Benchley looked up at the grimy windows of the lawyer’s office. “Mr. Snath, Esquire, had very little to tell us about Ernest MacGuffin, painter. Now what do we do?”

“Do you still have that leaflet?” Dorothy asked.

Benchley pulled the flyer from his pocket and read it aloud. “‘Mistress Viola Sweet—Spiritualist, Mentalist, Clairvoyant, Interlocutor of Paranormal Manifestation—’”

“And pants pressed while you wait.”

“She’s near Washington Square, in Greenwich Village.”

“Then let’s see how much she knows about our pragmatic and workmanlike pal Ernie. Come on, Woody.”

 

“I remember you.” The platinum blonde chuckled as she opened the door and patted the dog lightly on the head.

Woody’s stubby tail wagged so vigorously that his little behind moved back and forth. Again Dorothy silently cursed the little dog for its lasciviousness.

Viola no longer wore the tight blue skirt. Now she had only a pink satin robe wrapped tightly around her shapely body. Her sultry eyes showed that she remembered Dorothy and Benchley, too. “You’re here to ask about the séance?”

“Boy, you really can read minds, can’t you?” Dorothy said.

“You have my flyer in your hand,” Viola said wryly, glancing at the leaflet. “Can I have your names for the list?”

“The list?” Dorothy said.

“The list of participants. The séance is for participants only. No gawkers. There’s a five-dollar deposit. You can pay the balance of the donation when you arrive.”

“The balance?”

“Twenty dollars. So twenty-five altogether.”

“Mesmerism, clairvoyance and arithmetic, too. You’re quite a talent.” Dorothy looked over the storefront. The large sign read HUDSON RIVER SCHOOL OF ART. “What is it you do here? Are you an artist?”

“I’m an artist’s model.”

“A clairvoyant, a math whiz
and
an artist’s model? You’re quite a Renaissance woman.”

“Being a medium is new for me, just since Mr. MacGuffin’s spirit began speaking to me.”

“Speaking to you?” Benchley asked.

“Well, speaking
through
me. It’s his voice. I’m just a mouthpiece.”

That’s not the only kind of piece you are, sweetie,
Dorothy thought. But she said, “So, you knew Mr. MacGuffin?”

“Oh no. We never met.”

Dorothy remembered one of the paintings in Snath’s office—the one of the platinum blonde. Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence?

“There’s a big auction of Ernie MacGuffin’s paintings on Thursday night—Halloween night, the same night as your séance,” Dorothy said. “We just had the opportunity to look over the paintings. I could swear that you were pictured in one, and dressed quite informally, I might add.”

“
Quite
informally,” Benchley said merrily.

Dorothy asked, “How could he have painted a picture of you if you didn’t know him?”

“I told you I’m an artist’s model. I pose nude.” Viola didn’t sound defensive, but her voice took on an edge. “Maybe he was in a class or an artist’s group and I was the model. In any case, I never met him personally.”

“But his voice speaks through you now?” Dorothy asked.

“Yes. When summoned.”

“And why does he speak through
you
, if you never knew him?”

She smiled, as though back in familiar territory. “A number of people have asked me that. All I can say is that I’m the conduit, the channel through which he chose to convey his message.”

“And what is his message?” Dorothy asked. “What does he say when he speaks through you?”

“I don’t know exactly.” Viola’s smoky eyes took on a faraway look. “I go into a trance when it happens. People who have come to the séance tell me afterward that Mr. MacGuffin’s spirit says things—details—only he would know. They walk away convinced that it’s his true spirit.”

“Yes, I’m sure you show them a lot of spirit,” Dorothy said. “What kind of details?”

“All kinds,” Viola said, smiling again, confident in what she was saying. “He talks about his most well-known paintings. What kinds of brushes he used to paint them. When he painted them. Which models he used to get the exact effect. I learned that he once used Popsicle sticks to prop up a dead cat as a model for a painting of an attacking mountain lion. This was for the cover of
The Outdoorsman
magazine.”

Dorothy sensed Benchley’s posture stiffen. That story about the cat was a telling detail. They’d heard MacGuffin tell Neysa that exact same tidbit before.