“Couple of weeks ago, maybe less. When they get nosy, they get bounced. Not,” he added with a wink, “that I have anything to hide. I just don’t like snoopers. They get in my hair, what’s left of it.”
“What else did she do besides snoop?”
“Oh, she had some screwy idea about me making her immortal. At first I figured she was kidding and trying for a laugh. I have a pretty good sense of humor, so I laughed, see? She got sore as hell. If you want the truth, I don’t think she’s playing with all her marbles.”
“Exactly what kind of work did you give Evelyn Merrick?”
“She posed.”
“For you personally? Or for one of your “art” groups?”
“What difference does it make?”
“It might make a lot of difference to me.”
“How so?”
“If she posed for you, for a magazine story layout, you might give me a print of the picture. If she worked with your art group, I don’t think you will.”
Terola ground out the stub of his cigarette in an ashtray. “I never give away prints.”
“What do you do, peddle them?”
“Peddle is a very nasty word. You’d better leave before I push it back down your throat.”
“I didn’t realize what a sensitive fellow you were, Terola.”
“I don’t want any trouble with your kind. Blow.”
“Thank you for the information.”
Terola opened the door. “Go to hell.”
Blackshear walked down the alley and got into his car. It was the first time in thirty years that he’d been close to having a fight and the experience aroused old memories and old fears and a certain primeval excitement. His hand on the ignition key was unsteady and anger pressed on his eyeballs like iron thumbs. He wanted to go back and challenge Terola, fight him to the finish, kill him, if he had to.
But as he drove in the direction of Harley Moore’s studio, the brisk sea wind cooled his passions and neutralized the acid in his mind. I’m not as civilized as I like to think. There was no need to antagonize him. I handled everything wrong. Maybe I can do better with Moore.
Chapter 4
Bertha Moore had waited fifteen years for a child, and when the child, a girl, was born, Bertha could not quite believe in her good fortune. She had constantly to reassure herself. At all hours of the day and night she tiptoed into the nursery to see if the baby was still there, still alive. She could not settle down to read or sew even for a minute; she seemed to be half-suspended in air like a gas-filled balloon held captive only by a length of string. At the other end of this string, fixed and stationary, was her husband, Harley.
She did not make the mistake of ignoring Harley after the birth of the baby. She was, in fact, extremely kind to him, but it was a planned and unemotional kindness; at the back of her mind there was always the thought that she must take deliberate pains to keep Harley contented because the baby would be healthier and better adjusted if it had a happy home and a good father.
What spare time Bertha had was spent in conversations with friends and relatives about the perfections of her child, or in frantic calls to the pediatrician when it vomited its food or to Harley when it cried without apparent reason. During nearly twenty years of marriage Bertha had learned not to disturb Harley at his studio. She unlearned this in a single day, easily, and without the slightest compunction. These calls were “for the baby’s sake”, and as such were beyond reproach and above criticism. The baby flourished, unaware of its demands on its parents. Bertha called her Angie, which was short for Angel and had no connection with her registered name, Stephanie Caroline Moore.
At 4 o’clock Angie was in no mood for her bottle. Bertha was waltzing her back and forth across the living room when the telephone rang. She shifted the baby gently from her left arm to her right and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Is that Mrs. Moore?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of your husband’s.”
“Really?” Bertha said, in a lively manner, though she was hardly paying any attention. The baby’s hair felt so soft against her neck and its warm skin smelled of flowers and sunshine.
“I’m Evelyn Merrick. Perhaps your husband has mentioned me?”
“He may have.” With considerable effort the baby turned her head to listen to the conversation, and she made such a droll face that Bertha laughed out loud.
“Are you alone, Mrs. Moore?”
“I’m never alone. We have a new baby, you know.”
There was a pause. “Of course I knew.”
“She was just four months old yesterday.”
“They’re so sweet at that age.”
“Aren’t they, though. But Angie’s more like six months than four, even the doctor says so.” This was practically true. The doctor, had, after considerable prompting from Bertha, agreed that Angie was “quite advanced”, and was “developing nicely”.
“That’s such a cute name, Angie.”
“It’s only a nickname, really.” What a nice voice the woman had, Bertha thought, and how interested she was in the baby. “Speaking of names, I’m afraid I didn’t catch yours.”
“Evelyn Merrick. Miss Merrick.”
“It does sound familiar. I’m almost sure Harley’s mentioned you. Most of the time I’m so busy with the baby I don’t hear what people are saying... Stop that, Angie. No, no, mustn’t touch... She’s trying to pull out the telephone cord.”
“She sounds just adorable.”
“Oh, she is.” Bertha had admired other women’s babies for so many years — telling the truth, if the baby was cute, fibbing if it wasn’t — that she felt it only just that other women now had to admire hers. The nice thing was that none of them had to fib about Angie. She was perfect. There was no compliment about her so bulky, no piece of flattery so huge, that Bertha couldn’t swallow with the greatest of ease and digest without the faintest rumble.
“Does the baby look like you or like Harley?”
“Oh, like me, I’m afraid,” Bertha said with a proud little laugh. “Everyone thinks so.”
“I’d love to see her. I’m quite — mad about babies.”
“Why don’t you come over?”
“When?”
“Well, this afternoon, if you like. Angie’s restless, she won’t go to sleep for hours.” It would be fun to show the baby off to one of Harley’s friends, for a change. Harley was very modest about Angie and hardly ever brought anyone to see her. “Harley won’t be home until six. We can have some tea and a chat, and I’ll show you Angie’s baby book. Are you an artist, by any chance, Miss Merrick?”
“In a way.”
“I just wondered. Harley says the baby’s too young to be painted, but I... well, never mind. You will see for yourself. You know our address?”
“Yes. It will be a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Moore.”
They said good-bye and Bertha hung up, feeling a pleasant glow of anticipation and maternal pride.
She was not, by nature or experience, a suspicious woman — Harley had dozens of friends of both sexes — and it didn’t strike her as odd that Evelyn Merrick hadn’t explained the purpose of her call.
“A nice lady,” she told Angie, “is coming to admire you and I want you to be utterly captivating.”
Angie chewed her fingers.
When the baby’s diapers and dress had been changed and her half-inch of hair carefully brushed, Bertha went back to the phone to call Harley.
Harley himself answered, sounding sharp and distrustful the way he always did over the telephone, as if he expected to be bored or bamboozled.
“Har? It’s just me.”
“Oh. Anything wrong with the baby?”
“Not a thing. She’s bright as a dollar.”