One True Secret. Bethany Campbell
colors, the shading I guess you’d call it. But some of the stuff out there, it looks like a little kid did it. Or even a chimpanzee, for God’s sake.”
He gave her a half smile to show he understood. “You’re not the first person to think so.”
She pointed to a brightly colored ceramic fish on the wall. “That, to me, is artistic. You look at it, you know it’s a fish, right?”
“Right.” He paused. “Nathan’s granddaughter’s still putting his work on the market, you know. She says he’s still painting.”
Brenda’s face hardened. “Oh. Her.”
Her reaction pricked Eli’s interest. “Emerson Roth? You don’t like her?”
“She comes in here once or twice a month. To buy take-out for Nathan. He still likes our shrimp and scallops. I always ask her how he is, why he doesn’t come around. She just says he’s fine, then gives me the brush-off. Sometimes men try to get friendly with her. No dice. Guess she thinks she’s too high and mighty for the likes of us.”
Eli wondered. Emerson could give a fine impression of an ice princess. But was it snobbery that kept her from getting close to the locals? Or fear?
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “If Nathan’s…not himself, could he really still be painting? Do you think so?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Hey, I said he painted wiggles. How hard is that? He could probably do it with his eyes closed. Oop. ’Scuze me. Those folks want to check out.”
She bustled to the cash register. He gazed after her, a sturdy, kindly woman full of common sense. Perhaps she had hit the nail on the head. Were Roth’s new works only parodies of what he’d once done, but nobody had caught the sad joke of it?
Were they the scribbles of a mind in dementia? But the dementia was a secret, and the paintings kept selling because once the man had been a genius?
Stranger things had happened in the art world. But if it was true, did it mean the paintings were worthless? And did that make Emerson Roth a first-class con artist?
He pushed his dinner away only half-eaten. He paid his bill and left Brenda a ten-dollar tip. Then he drove south toward Key West, into the darkness of the gathering storm.
MERRIMAN WANDERED alone around Duval Street. He’d bought himself a light raincoat, but hadn’t bothered with a hat.
The rain flattened his unruly hair, ran down his face. Plenty of people were in bars, forgetting their troubles or the weather reports or both. They forgot loudly. He could hear the blare of their conversation and music when he passed the open doors.
He wasn’t tempted to join them. His mind was on Claire Roth. He had a mind made for images, and hers had him enthralled and kept him haunted. Hers was more than pretty face. It was an innocent’s face.
Eli Garner couldn’t suspect her of anything…could he? Maybe the rest of the family was involved in something shady. Not Claire.
Merriman believed that he could read faces. In hers he saw something so unspoiled and guileless it almost gave him a religious experience, except she also set off the most primitive of his desires.
Had she been going to agree to see him again? Or refuse? He wanted to believe she felt what he did. Did he dare phone her? He walked faster to try to burn off his indecision.
The streets were not nearly as bustling today. They weren’t empty, but the human traffic was nothing like the throngs of yesterday.
Merriman made his way to Mallory Square, where crowds usually gathered every afternoon. They came to celebrate the sun going down and cheer when it sank beneath the rim of the ocean. Merriman had heard it was a carnivallike atmosphere, with street performers, vendors of crafts and souvenirs, popcorn stands, drinks and hundreds of tourists.
But this sunset celebration was clearly going to be a dud. The sun, hidden behind streaming clouds, was a no-show. So were many of the street performers. The flames of the fire-eater would be whipped too much by the wind. The man who suspended himself in the air from chains would have lashed back and forth like a pendulum. Dominique the Cat Man wouldn’t chance his beloved trained cats jumping through a fiery hoop—too dangerous.
The popcorn stands were battened down. The crafts tables had been folded up and carted away. Only a few acts played to small knots of people hunched against the rain. No drunken college boys would be leaping off the pier in an excess of celebration.
Then the rain began to pour more wildly. The man with the trained dogs packed up to leave; the bagpiper moaned and screeched his last and the spectators darted for the nearest shelter.
The weather was getting wild, all right, Merriman thought, and it made him nervous. He turned to slosh back down Duval to his hotel room. Now stores were shutting early, windows were being boarded up and the streets were nearly deserted.
The wind had torn loose palm branches and they swept along the street, like brooms being wielded by ghosts. Petals were flying off the flowers Claire had told him were bougainvillea. They reminded of him damp butterflies fluttering to escape.
What was this storm doing to Claire at Mandevilla? She’d said it frightened her a little. It was worse now. Would she and her family try to ride it out in the old house, or would they evacuate the way some people were talking about doing?
He had to phone her, to find out how she was. And to ask if she would see him again. He didn’t want to call from any of the bars or restaurants—they were too noisy. He made it back to the hotel and up to his room.
He was cold from the rain, so he took a hot shower, then wrapped a towel around his middle and padded to the bed. He sat down and dialed the number of Nathan Roth’s house. Eli had given it to him. He held his breath, hoping against hope that it would be Claire who answered.
CLAIRE COULD TELL that this storm had Emerson worried.
She knew because Emerson had been in the library, pulling together important paperwork and documents. She would not have done that unless she thought they might have to leave.
Now Emerson was in the kitchen, checking batteries in half a dozen different appliances and muttering to herself. When the phone rang in the living room, she called to Claire, “Get that, will you? Maybe it’s Frenchy.”
Frenchy was not a native of Key West, but his wife, LouAnn was. LouAnn had an eerie instinct about hurricanes, Frenchy claimed. He had promised to keep them informed if her hunches and vibes told her danger was coming.
Claire swallowed and picked up the phone. She’d brought the two guard dogs, Doberman pinschers, inside again. Emerson hadn’t wanted them running loose when Eli and Merriman were there. Fang, who hated storms, pressed against her knee, not wanting to leave her. Bruiser slept on the hearth rug, oblivious to the weather.
“Hello?” Claire said, expecting to hear Frenchy.
But the voice was not Frenchy’s. It was one she’d never heard on the telephone before, yet she recognized it immediately.
“Claire? Is that you, Claire?”
It was the photographer. Her heart bounded like a frightened hare. “Yes,” she breathed, her heart still trying to run away.
“This is Merriman. Are you all right out there? I was worried about you.”
She took a deep breath, eased to the living room door and shut it, so that Emerson wouldn’t overhear. “We’re fine. I—I’ve been worried about you.”
He laughed. “Me? Why?”
“We’re used to this. You’re not.”
“They say it could be headed right for us,” Merriman said.
Claire was touched. He sounded truly concerned. “They’ve said that before. And this one keeps stalling.”
“Has one ever hit? Head-on, I mean?”