Up ahead, a woman strode up the steep hill from downtown, a bag of groceries clutched in each arm. Her face was shiny with sweat, a handsome olive-skinned woman with dark hair curling past her shoulders. She wore a white embroidered peasant blouse, white pants cuffed at the ankle. She shifted the bags slightly as she reached the top of the hill, blew her hair out of her face, and grinned at him as she caught him watching.
Thorpe smiled back.
The woman gasped as the paper bag in her right hand broke, sending a cascade of groceries onto the sidewalk, a rain of fruits and vegetables and shattered glass jars. A bottle of Perrier foamed over her sandals. She held the other bag with both hands, surrounded by shards of glass, as Thorpe ran to help.
Thorpe bent down, pulled a sliver of green glass from her foot, and wiped away the spot of blood with a fingertip. Her white cuffs were spotted with mayonnaise.
"Be careful," she said as Thorpe gathered up the broken glass.
"I'll be careful… Son of a bitch." He stood up. A piece of clear glass was embedded in his knee. He hadn't even seen it on the sidewalk.
"You're hurt." She shifted her groceries again, concerned.
"I'm fine. Stupid, but fine." Thorpe pulled the piece of glass out of his knee.
She didn't move her feet, but scooped up loose fruit, then gave them a quick check and put them in the other bag. Her hands were nimble as she selected the groceries, the thick nails trimmed and unpolished, utterly feminine. He bent to help her, and the two of them worked together until the sidewalk was clean. Thorpe carefully folded up a paper bag they had put the pieces of glass in, and walked it over to a garbage can. He turned and found her standing beside him.
"You're bleeding. Follow me. I live just a block away."
"It's okay."
"Don't be so male."
"Do I have a choice?"
"You got hurt helping me. Let me return the favor. Come on, tough guy." She beckoned, and he followed her, the two of them walking side by side. "I'm Gina."
"Frank. Can I carry that bag?"
"We're almost there. Are you house shopping? I saw you had a brochure."
"Just looking."
"It's a nice neighborhood." She slowed a few minutes later. "Here we are. Come up on the porch. I'll get some bandages and antiseptic."
Thorpe stared. It was the Meachum house. Stunned, he watched her climb the steps.
Gina must have misunderstood his hesitation. She nodded at one of the rattan rockers on the porch. "Make yourself comfortable. I'd invite you in, but the house is a mess." It was a nice lie, and he appreciated her making the effort. She took her groceries inside, the screen door banging behind her.
Thorpe climbed onto the porch, still unsettled by the fact that Gina was Meachum's wife. He sat down, rocked gently as he looked out at the neighborhood, feeling as though any sudden movement would upset some fragile cosmic equilibrium. He felt the same way sometimes when he was on assignment, closing in on a subject, making conversation, his senses so acute that he worried his own elevated heartbeat would give him away. He kept rocking. The houses all had tiny front lawns, but most of the neighbors let their shrubs run rampant, growing high, vines blooming over the windows, giving more privacy. He liked the feel of it, the tropical excess. Sometimes it was just best to give in to nature.
"What are you thinking about?" Gina stood in the doorway.
"I like your place."
"Thanks. I grew up in this house. My husband keeps wanting to remodel, but I can't do it." Gina came onto the porch with a first-aid kit, sat down across from him. "You don't have anything catching, do you?"
"No. I'd tell you if I did."
She propped Thorpe's leg up, used a gauze pad to wipe off the blood with those strong hands, no hesitation in her touch. Her black hair was thick and a little coarse-she pushed it back with her wrists as she worked-and her sweat was fragrant. He wondered how Douglas Meachum could cheat on her. He saw Meachum and the blonde driving away from LAX, and Thorpe wondered what kind of lies Meachum told himself when he was alone with the blonde, what lies he told the blonde about Gina. He watched her bent over his knee, and he realized that he couldn't involve her in the wake-up. He was going to teach Meachum a lesson, but the house was off-limits. He would have to squeeze Meachum through his business.
"Ouch."
"Don't be a baby." Gina cleaned the edges of the wound with a Q-tip now. Bits of color were speckled at the base of her cuticles: red, yellow, blue.
"Are you a painter?"
She rubbed her cuticles, pleased. "You're very observant." She checked the cut, put a fresh gauze pad on the wound. Her cell phone was beeping. "Hello." She looked at Thorpe. "I'm on the porch. Where are you?"
Thorpe could hear Meachum's voice through the receiver, saying, "I'm still in New York. Where'd you think I'd be?"
Gina averted her eyes, turned toward the street so that Thorpe couldn't see her face as she listened. "No, I haven't been by the gallery."
"Why the hell not?"
"Don't talk to me like that." Gina checked the gauze pad. "I'm busy, that's why." She looked away. "I had an accident walking home from the grocery store. A man helped me." She glanced at Thorpe. "I don't know; I just met him. He cut himself on some glass helping me, so at this moment I'm taking care of him." She pulled the phone away from her ear, disgusted, and snapped it shut. It started beeping again, but she ignored it.
"I'm sorry," said Thorpe.
"For what?" Gina tore off strips of clear adhesive and taped him tight. "You'll live."
4
Thorpe had barely stepped inside Meachum Fine Arts when he was approached by a well-dressed woman in her thirties, a big-boned Bertha with a prim mouth, plenty of auburn hair, and the beginnings of a double chin. She wore a cream-and-brown suit, the skirt at midcalf, her large feet squeezed into matching two-tone pumps. "Good afternoon." She appraised him with a cool smile, took in the sleek, gunmetal gray suit, black silk T-shirt, black loafers. Vaguely European, hip without trying too hard. She showed her flat white teeth. "I'm Nell Cooper. How can I assist you?"
Thorpe looked around the showroom, raised an eyebrow at the safe contemporary watercolors displayed against the right wall-sailboats and sunsets and dour Navajos. "I'm not at all sure you can."
Reading his distaste, Nell pivoted slightly, inclined her head at the paintings, and raised an eyebrow. "We have to carry a full range of aesthetic options, Mr…"
"Frank Antonelli. I'm moving into a home in Corona del Mar, and I thought you might be able to help me make it livable."
She nodded. "Please call me Nell. I can assure you, Frank, that at Meachum Fine Arts we pride ourselves in finding the perfect fit between our clients and the fine art they choose to surround themselves with."
"A perfect fit? That's a terrifying thought."
Nell was knocked a little off stride by that, but she recovered quickly.
Meachum Fine Arts was a one-story building in Newport Beach, right on the Pacific Coast Highway, with a black-and-white Op Art mural on the side facing the parking lot, and gold-flaked wood sphinxes flanking the doorway. The ocean was visible from the showroom, a beach volleyball game in progress, but the sound of the waves was muted by the thick tinted windows-you might as well have been watching ESPN. The distressed white pine floor creaked underfoot. The offerings were as eclectic as Nell had said-a red-toned Tenzing carpet, czarist Russian icons, and a museum-quality Italian rococo dresser-but there were too many soapstone sculptures of seals and dolphins. An oil painting got his attention, a realistic image of a traffic cop beckoning in bright sunshine, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face, one of his socks halfway down. Thorpe leaned closer.