Desert Noir (9781615952236) by Betty Webb Page B

memory flashed into my mind of Madeline, one of my foster mothers, wiping paint off her hands with a turpentine-stained rag. Turning towards me, she caressed my cheek with a soft hand. “Did you know that you’re such a beautiful little girl I’m having trouble painting you? Say, I’ve got an idea! If you frown a little harder, you’ll give me some nice easy frown lines to paint.” 
    When my standard morose expression disappeared into giggles, she caressed my cheek again. “Thank you, dear. Laugh lines are easy to paint, too.” 
    Remembering all this, I said to McKinnon, “Most artists I’ve known are perfectly decent people. Kobe’s the exception.” 
    He didn’t say anything for a while, and for a moment, I thought he might have walked away from the phone. But then he surprised me. “You know, Lena, I don’t think we’re going to have any trouble getting the charges against Mr. Kobe dropped, so why don’t you just send me your bill.” 
    â€œHal, that’s the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say.” 
    Interesting. One day after begging me to take the case McKinnon was backing away. Was he trying to protect me?
    Or was he afraid of what I might find out?
    I spent the rest of the day just sitting around, more or less following my doctor’s orders. After call-forwarding the phone to my apartment, I went upstairs and read a few pages from the new Stephen King, listened to some barnstorming Chicago blues by KoKo Taylor, then put together a scratch salad from the browning lettuce in the refrigerator.
    By 2 p.m. I was bored enough to ignore my shoulder’s complaints, and hobbled down the stairs and through the ghastly heat to the Damon and Pythias Gallery. The last time I’d seen Cliff Barbianzi—at least to remember—was at Clarice’s funeral. Although I was certain he’d been close to her, his face had betrayed nothing.
    Just as I’d hoped, Cliffie sat enthroned behind his Louis Quatorze desk, as elegantly attired as the Sun King himself. The hand-tailored dark suit might not be very “Arizona” but it whispered money and good breeding, as did the diamond and platinum tie tack which kept his rep tie from running off. The Sun King, however, would probably have disapproved of an art gallery devoted to male nudes; Louis XIV preferred women. Cliffie looked up when I entered and a look of horror spread across his crinkled baby’s face.
    â€œLena! You’re supposed to be in the hospital!” Although in his sixties, Cliffie was one of the handsomest men I knew. With his cherubic face and silvery hair, he looked like an impish elderly angel just one good deed away from getting his wings.
    I eased myself carefully into an exquisite needlepoint chair. “Don’t nag, Cliffie. It makes my head hurt. Why don’t you offer me a drink instead?” I looked hopefully towards the small back room where I knew he kept a small refrigerator stocked with strawberry smoothies and Beck’s. “I need the vitamin C.” 
    He gave me a bemused look but without another word, got up and walked to the back room, returning shortly with a Beck’s for himself and a smoothie for me. He knew that I never touched alcohol, although he didn’t know the reason—that not knowing my genetic background, I was afraid to indulge in anything that might be even remotely habit-forming. For all I knew, my parents were both alcoholics. Or drug addicts. Or maybe even a nasty combination of both.
    â€œL’chaim, dear heart,” he said, as he tilted his Beck’s towards me.
    â€œL’chaim to you, too.” The smoothie was delicious. We sipped in quiet communion for a moment, then I cleared my throat and said, “Cliffie, I want to thank you for everything you did last night. Not everybody would have come running like that when the shooter was still around.”