was no long black coat with a high collar hanging on the wall. Life doesn’t hand things up that neatly tied.
When I pushed the door open, a discreet bell chimed three times. The man looked up and smiled generically. He had longish but tidy dark hair and a pair of neat round spectacles. “Good afternoon.”
I looked around the walls. Further large, square paintings—or canvases with paint on them, at any rate.
“Can I help you, or are we just browsing?”
I kept silent long enough for him to register something wasn’t right with this encounter. Then I turned to look at him. “Are you Thomas Clark?”
“Yes.”
“Catherine says hi.”
He looked confused. “I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I don’t think the name sounds familiar …”
“Back then you were going to make it as an artist yourself. Fancy handmade pots, she said.”
He blinked as the penny dropped. “You mean … Catherine
Warren ?”
“I do.”
“But … I haven’t seen her in years.”
“Really?”
“Ask her.”
“I talked with Catherine three hours ago. She gave me your name.”
“Why? Who are you?”
“My name is John Henderson. Someone’s been following Catherine. At night. She thinks it could be you.”
“ What ? Why would I do that?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “And your question doesn’t answer mine.”
His eyes flicked to the side. A smart-looking middle-aged couple were drifting to a halt outside. I could not see the painting that had caught their attention, only their eyes and a desire to acquire.
I walked over and flipped the open sign to closed. The guy outside stared at me. I stared back. They went away.
Clark meanwhile remained at his desk. “I haven’t seen Catherine since I moved out of Manhattan,” he said. “We split up and I called her a couple times afterward, I’ll admit, but—”
“Why did you call her? Were you uncertain why she was ending the relationship?”
He laughed. “Uncertain? Oh no. At first it was all ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ but it became clear she was leaving me for this guy she’d met. The marvelous Mark.”
That struck an off note, but I kept drilling. “You remember his name?”
“Of course I do. I was in love with her . Then one night over the phone it’s bam—she’s with this other guy instead. My services are no longer required; could I please let myself out of her life.”
“Why did you try to contact her afterward?”
“She’d always said we’d be friends forever. It had been this big thing of hers. She didn’t mean it, though. Once you stop being useful to Catherine you’re cut out of the script for good. I called a few times. I sent her a letter … and two cards. I sent …”
He trailed off, memory dulling his face. “I sent her a bunch of irises. They were her favorite. That was something I’d known about her back when we’d been friends, before we started dating. It was supposed to signal, you know, that we could go back to that, if she wanted. There was no response. I gave up.”
“When did you move out of Manhattan?”
“Eight years ago.”
“Do you go back?”
“Of course. I used to have an agent there, but he let me go about the same time I realized people were using the pots I’d slaved long hours over … to keep flowers in. I visit an exhibition once in a while, see friends, and, well, yes—obviously I’m there sometimes. But my real life is here now.”
“Where were you last night?”
He gestured around. “Hanging these. If you need witnesses you’ll have to find someone who happened to walk by. It’s a busy street at night and I’m sure there were some, but I don’t know their names.”
“I don’t need witnesses. I’m not a cop.”
He cocked his head. “Then what right do you have to be asking all this?”
“None. I apologize if I’ve been intrusive.”
“So what happened? Did Catherine dump Mark? Is she with you now?”
“No. They’re married. They have two kids.”
“Huh. Guess at
When I pushed the door open, a discreet bell chimed three times. The man looked up and smiled generically. He had longish but tidy dark hair and a pair of neat round spectacles. “Good afternoon.”
I looked around the walls. Further large, square paintings—or canvases with paint on them, at any rate.
“Can I help you, or are we just browsing?”
I kept silent long enough for him to register something wasn’t right with this encounter. Then I turned to look at him. “Are you Thomas Clark?”
“Yes.”
“Catherine says hi.”
He looked confused. “I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I don’t think the name sounds familiar …”
“Back then you were going to make it as an artist yourself. Fancy handmade pots, she said.”
He blinked as the penny dropped. “You mean … Catherine
Warren ?”
“I do.”
“But … I haven’t seen her in years.”
“Really?”
“Ask her.”
“I talked with Catherine three hours ago. She gave me your name.”
“Why? Who are you?”
“My name is John Henderson. Someone’s been following Catherine. At night. She thinks it could be you.”
“ What ? Why would I do that?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “And your question doesn’t answer mine.”
His eyes flicked to the side. A smart-looking middle-aged couple were drifting to a halt outside. I could not see the painting that had caught their attention, only their eyes and a desire to acquire.
I walked over and flipped the open sign to closed. The guy outside stared at me. I stared back. They went away.
Clark meanwhile remained at his desk. “I haven’t seen Catherine since I moved out of Manhattan,” he said. “We split up and I called her a couple times afterward, I’ll admit, but—”
“Why did you call her? Were you uncertain why she was ending the relationship?”
He laughed. “Uncertain? Oh no. At first it was all ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ but it became clear she was leaving me for this guy she’d met. The marvelous Mark.”
That struck an off note, but I kept drilling. “You remember his name?”
“Of course I do. I was in love with her . Then one night over the phone it’s bam—she’s with this other guy instead. My services are no longer required; could I please let myself out of her life.”
“Why did you try to contact her afterward?”
“She’d always said we’d be friends forever. It had been this big thing of hers. She didn’t mean it, though. Once you stop being useful to Catherine you’re cut out of the script for good. I called a few times. I sent her a letter … and two cards. I sent …”
He trailed off, memory dulling his face. “I sent her a bunch of irises. They were her favorite. That was something I’d known about her back when we’d been friends, before we started dating. It was supposed to signal, you know, that we could go back to that, if she wanted. There was no response. I gave up.”
“When did you move out of Manhattan?”
“Eight years ago.”
“Do you go back?”
“Of course. I used to have an agent there, but he let me go about the same time I realized people were using the pots I’d slaved long hours over … to keep flowers in. I visit an exhibition once in a while, see friends, and, well, yes—obviously I’m there sometimes. But my real life is here now.”
“Where were you last night?”
He gestured around. “Hanging these. If you need witnesses you’ll have to find someone who happened to walk by. It’s a busy street at night and I’m sure there were some, but I don’t know their names.”
“I don’t need witnesses. I’m not a cop.”
He cocked his head. “Then what right do you have to be asking all this?”
“None. I apologize if I’ve been intrusive.”
“So what happened? Did Catherine dump Mark? Is she with you now?”
“No. They’re married. They have two kids.”
“Huh. Guess at
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