Jeff Abbott - Black Joint Point

‘How’s she holding up?’

‘She’s talking to the police right now.’

Roy raised an eyebrow. ‘And what’s she saying?’

‘Family secrets, probably.’

Roy made a noise of thick beer-swallow, kept staring at him.

Suzanne returned. ‘Something to drink, Whit?’ Her voice glimmered a little too cheery, a little too hostess-bright.

‘No, thank you. May we talk now? Privately?’

‘Sure.’ Suzanne glanced at Roy, then led Whit down a hall thankfully empty of abstract art-pukings. Two doors opened off the hall: one to a concrete-floored room cluttered with small iron sculptures of gulls, palm trees, flamingos, and assorted equipment; the other to another studio, bright windows framing the view of the bay. A huge canvas leaned near one window, covered with a stained dropcloth. A worktable stood nearby, dotted with oil paint in blues, mustards, venomous greens, as though poison dripped on its surface. Finished paintings – more of the obnoxious scribblings that hung in the living room – decorated the walls.

In one corner a huge roll of paper lay unfurled, with smears of bright acrylic paint dried on the paper. Whit glanced at it, then glanced again. Two round magenta globes looked like they’d been pressed on the paper from small, pert breasts. A roll of lime paint looked like a hip; multiple handprints lay in blue and pink. Other blobs resembled kneeprints, footprints, and one squat figure eight looked like apple-green testicles. Suzanne wore a bent little smile on her architectural face.

‘You’re very prolific’ Whit nodded toward the calmer paintings on the wall. It was the only compliment he could think of.

‘I get bored working on a painting too long, so I paint quickly. But they sell quickly, too.’ An offhand shrug.

‘They’re very interesting.’

Interesting apparently didn’t cut it; she frowned. She sat on a paint-splattered stool and he settled on its twin across from her.

‘You’re probably wondering why I don’t paint the bay, with a wonderful view.’ Suzanne crossed her legs, dangled a black sandal off one alabaster foot.

‘No. But you want to tell me.’

She gave a solemn smile. ’Everyone here paints the bay. Every stupid little dabbler who can barely hold a brush between their fingers. And the required frisky gulls, little boats, swaying palms. Tiresome.’ She pointed at one small painting, framed in silver, a violent swirl of purple spirals, gray crosses, and white froth that looked like nothing more than idle slapping of paint by an angry child. ‘That’s the bay. My interpretation of it. No adorable dinghies, no fishing grannies, no endangered whooping cranes winging back to the refuge. The bay as it is. Hard. Cruel. Like life is.’

He didn’t think she knew diddly about hard life in this grand house. Maybe he should have her call Linda Bird. ‘I’d like to know about your relationship with Patch.’

‘Are you asking as a judge or because Lucy’s said an unkind word or two?’

Now that was interesting. ‘As a judge.’

‘I loved Patch. Who didn’t?’ She tucked her sandal back on her foot. ‘Artists live up to our stereotype now and then, get moody and mean when the work sucks. Patch always pulled me out of the blues, gave me a slap on the fanny when I needed it.’ She spoke with the air of the artist, playing out each nuance until it wasn’t a nuance anymore. But he saw in the dusky light how brittle her eyes and mouth looked under the fresh makeup. She had cried and cried hard.

‘Did he ever help you in other ways? Say financially?’

‘You ask that like you know the answer already.’

Whit shrugged.

‘You know, Lucy doesn’t make it easy to love her sometimes, does she? She does have a mouth.’ She lit a cigarette, a thin, ladylike coffin nail in a pink pack, then offered him one. He declined.

‘She told you garbage about me with great reluctance, right? Much wringing of hands? She got a vibe, right?’

Whit said nothing.

‘Lucy was born with a finger pointing at someone else. Artists see patterns, honey, and I’ve seen plenty of this one.’

‘She said you asked Patch for a large loan.’

‘I was a little short on cash between paintings and asked Patch for help. He said no, I said fine, we were fine. He’s not a bank. I understood.’

‘You asked for a hundred thousand?’

Her eyes went wide. ‘Good Lord, no. I asked for ten thousand. I got it from a friend. It’s being paid off, no problems.’ She tapped ashes into a crystal ashtray on the worktable, her mouth thinned. ‘A hundred thousand. She ought to use that imagination for noble causes.’

‘She said it’s what Patch told her.’

‘She’s dead wrong.’

‘She and Patch seemed to have a good relationship.’

‘Lucy likes people who have things and will give them to her. I’m not one of those people. Patch was. He doted on Lucy, just a bit too much.’

‘Can you think of anyone who’d want Patch or Thuy dead?’

‘He only dated widows, and he was successful at it. I could see he might make another man jealous. Thuy, Lord, no. Gentle and kind as a lamb. Retired teacher, loaded with patience. I adored her.’

‘You and Roy were here in town on Monday night.’

‘Yes. I already gave a statement to the police. We were here, watched the news, turned in.’ She paused, tilted her head, gave him a melty smile. ‘We fucked. Twice. So we were awake until midnight or so. That’s not in the police statement but I don’t mind total honesty with you.’ Her smile shifted; his skin prickled.

‘In a bed or on the canvas?’

The smile widened. ‘You have a good eye.’

Yeah, it’s real tough to make out painted, squashed boobs. He saw the perfection of her face created a sense of emptiness – like a house with no curtains in the windows. ‘Roy’s what to you, social engineering?’

‘Radio Lucy strikes again.’ She shrugged. ‘It was a minor drug conviction, ten years ago. He’s clean.’ She exhaled a cool little stream of smoke. ‘He was here all Monday and Tuesday with me, okay? Working. He’s an artist, too. His studio’s across the hall. Sculptures in metal. Gulls, lighthouses, coastal art for the gift shop crowd. He’s not an artist at my level but he has potential.’

Whit glanced at the body prints on the paper on the floor and thought he saw Roy’s rather limited potential at work.

‘It’s a lot of land at stake. With Patch gone.’

She frowned, as though he had dragged a dirty finger across one of her artworks. ‘Well, the Gilberts have owned most of Black Jack Point since before Texas was Texas. It totals about three hundred acres. Fifty acres is mine. Fifty is Lucy’s. Uncle Patch owns another two hundred.’ She shrugged again. ‘I’ve no idea of the details of Uncle Patch’s will. I would suppose Lucy and I inherit. But we never discussed it.’

‘But if you needed ten thousand dollars, why not sell some of your land?’

‘We’ve always had an unspoken agreement not to sell, except as a group. Patch wanted to hold on to the family land, even when solid offers came in. Lucy and I always deferred to him.’

‘Have you gotten many offers on the land?’ Considering the value of waterfront property in parts of Texas, Whit wondered if the land provided a hard motive.

‘One, oh, a month ago. I got a phone call from a real estate investor in Corpus. I wasn’t interested, but I did refer him to Patch because he was so persistent.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Stoney Vaughn. He’s got a big-ass house up on Copano Flats. Tedious type. I met him once at a Port Leo Art Center function. And another offer, about a year ago, from a company in Houston. We just say no. We don’t want to sell. I don’t know if that will change now, with Patch gone.’