Justine Olegard, curator at the McFall Art Museum, reached for the envelope that she’d tucked under the side of the blotter on her desk. She’d had a premonition when the thing had arrived the other day in the mail, and though Tony Olsen had always been a large benefactor and player in the museum’s ongoing development, something about this particular envelope had struck her as somehow ominous, and she’d put off opening the thing.
Now, at her lunchtime on this Thursday, she had locked her door and, using her Navajo dagger, cut open the envelope. Sitting back, she read the letter quickly, then set it down squarely in front of her and read it again.
It couldn’t have been less welcome news.
Tony would be using the museum to hold some sort of a memorial to commemorate the death-by execution no less-of Rosemary Thomas. This was just the kind of distraction that Justine, now on the cusp of the museum’s new season, did not need.
In fact, she never ever again wanted to hear the names Rosemary and Christopher Thomas.
Of course, the demise of both Thomases had been the prime reason for her ascendancy at the museum. Back then, she had been in her early thirties and still liked to believe she had the bloom of youth, that she could be attractive to a charismatic and powerful man such as Chris Thomas for her body and face as well as for her brains, erudition, organizational skills.
She’d been his associate curator. And, yes, he’d been married. He made no secret of that. But he’d told her that his marriage to Rosemary was a sham. They were both working to settle the visitation of the children and some financial details and to move on with their divorce, but in the meanwhile he was virile and powerful, and then there’d been the issue of the fake Soutine painting she’d helped acquire for the museum. If it hadn’t been for Chris, well…
Still, she felt the familiar flush rise in her cheeks at the shame of it.
Shaking her head to clear it of these awkward and painful memories, she cast her eyes back to the envelope. After a moment, a muscle working in her jaw, she picked up the telephone and punched in the numbers she knew by heart. “Hello, Tony,” she said to Olsen’s answering machine, “this is Justine. I know it’s been a couple of days since I got your note about Rosemary Thomas’s memorial, but I wanted you to know that I think it’s a wonderful idea, and it will be terrific to have so many of the museum’s sponsors back in one location again, where I’m sure they’ll be impressed with all of our improvements over the years. I’m sure it will be a wonderful event.”
Her hand shaking, she hung up the phone.
Stan Ballard walked through a small grove of eucalyptus and up a hill through a forest of tombstones to a lone marble crypt. Out in front of him, the Pacific glinted out to the horizon. Without really consciously planning to, he had driven out here to the cemetery in Colma and had parked way down in the lot. Wandering aimlessly at first, he had walked off most of the effects of his lunch with Peter Heusen by the time he arrived at Rosemary’s burial plot, where her remains lay beside those of her parents, her grandparents, and-to the disgust and dismay of some-her husband.
Going down to one knee, he put a flat palm on the slab of marble that had been laid over the bones of Rosemary Heusen Thomas and looked out at the ocean.
Hidden among the tombstones, he crouches beside a crypt large enough to shield his body while providing a bird’s-eye view of the man who kneels in front of Rosemary Thomas’s grave.
Such a stupid move for a man who has made millions off a dead woman, he thinks.
He takes in the man’s expensive suit, shiny shoes slightly dulled by the graveyard’s dirt and dust.
What is he doing here?
He watches the man drag his hand across the marble slab as if cleaning it. And he’s saying something, though his words are lost in the air.
He wouldn’t be surprised if the man started scraping at the grave, digging through dirt and grass and stone in search of some valuable trinket-an earring, a necklace-that he could yank off the bones of the dead woman, something more he could take from her.
Oh, these parasites.
He is tempted to walk up to him and ask, “Tell me, why are you visiting the grave of a woman whose money you have filtered into your own account?”
He would like to hear the answer because he is genuinely surprised and interested to know why some people act so foolishly sentimental, so guilty, after acting so badly.
His knees are starting to ache. He’s tired and needs to stand or stretch but doesn’t dare.
Now the lawyer stands and brushes dust from his pin-striped suit. He smooths his hair. He looks past the grave as if searching for something, then turns, and it’s as if he’s staring directly at the spot from where he is being observed.
9 T. Jefferson Parker
The letter came on the first day of summer, addressed to my wife. It was from billionaire Tony Olsen, a man I did not love. The envelope was ivory colored and square-an announcement or invitation maybe. I collected it with the rest of the mail from our box out on Laguna Canyon Road, and I jammed the whole fat handful into a book bag and walked back up the steep street to our house.
The afternoon was sunny and warm, with a stiff onshore breeze that brought the smell of the ocean up the canyon. A few wildflowers were still holding on with the sagebrush. Two hawks circled above. I wondered if that big halibut was still hanging out at Divers Cove and thought I might go down there that evening and have another go at him. A yard long, at least. I missed him yesterday but I don’t usually miss.
As I walked up the road to our house, I passed the homes of the professional surfer, the history professor, the rock singer, the arborist, the patent lawyer. We’ve got a good little ’hood. The gardens are perfect, we get the trash cans off the street pronto. Belle and I are the poor people-the artist and the camera store owner and their two kids.
Belle was in her studio at the far end of our lot. It’s a metal building that was once a machine shop, but it has skylights and plenty of space. She was standing at an easel, working on a painting. Her shorts and hiking boots were covered in paint, her flannel shirt was paint splattered, her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. She looked a mess, a gorgeous mess.
“You’ve got mail,” I said.
“Any checks?”
“No. And no Victoria’s Secret catalog either.”
“Tragic.”
I fished the Tony letter out of the book bag and set it on a workbench covered with paints and solvents and gesso.
“Open it,” said Belle.
I opened it. “We’re invited to a memorial for Rosemary Thomas. On the tenth anniversary of her death.”
Belle didn’t look surprised, just continued painting for a minute, then looked at me and lowered her paintbrush hand. “Who was it said that the past doesn’t just come back to haunt us, it never really leaves?”
“We can just say no.”
“She was a beautiful person and she helped me. What they did to her is unforgivable. You know how I feel about all of that, Don.”
Yes, I did. Rosemary Thomas had discovered Belle’s paintings at the Laguna Festival of Arts thirteen years ago and had brought them to the attention of her curator husband, Christopher. He was running the shows at the McFall Art Museum in San Francisco. He and Rosemary flew down one summer and Belle spent two days with them, showing them her work and studio, letting them hang around the festival and observe the scene. I was there for some of it. We came back here after the second night and drank. And Rosemary kept talking admiringly about Belle’s work, particularly Waves 27, a small oil on canvas, a ship at sea in big, black waves, both beautiful and terrifying. Ryder, updated-the best of a series. We had it hanging in our dining room until shortly after Rosemary’s execution, when we learned of arrangements she’d made with Olsen to have the painting installed in the McFall as part of the permanent collection.