The Painted Gun. Bradley Spinelli
But Jeffrey mentioned her several times—she drove him crazy. All the artists drove him crazy, but Ashley especially. He thought she was incredibly talented, but she always painted the same subject, and he thought she would be difficult to sell. And she wouldn’t take any advice from him at all. He called her ‘the diva.’ I never met her, but I think he discovered her at a group show or something. She had a studio . . . somewhere. I forget.”
“Listen, anything you could find out about her would be a fantastic help. I think—”
“Wait a minute. It’s you, isn’t it? That painting at the gallery—it’s you.”
“It did look a bit like me. But I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.”
She leveled a steamy gaze at me and for a moment I imagined her Marin attire matted up on my bathroom floor. “Mm-hmm.”
“I promise you,” I said in my most convincing voice, “I’ve never met her.”
“So what is it? You think Ashley had something to do with Jeffrey’s death? I thought it must be that man Serena saw—”
“I think it was. But yes, I think it has something to do with Ashley.”
“Why?”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t want to tell you too much, Susan, and to be honest, I don’t know that much. But Ashley’s gone missing. I was hired to find her. I discovered that she had a piece at your brother’s gallery and went to talk to him. Half an hour later he was . . .”
“Dead. I see.”
“Susan, you don’t seem all that troubled—”
“Jeffrey tested positive for HIV years ago. He went into full-blown AIDS about six months back. The cocktails weren’t really helping, his health was deteriorating slowly but steadily . . . I’ve had some time to deal with the possibility of his death. Perhaps it’s better this way.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’re all sorry.”
I thought about that. “Did Jeffrey keep files, or any kind of background information on his artists?”
She shook her head. “He did, he was quite good about it, but they were all destroyed or went missing when . . .” She trailed off.
“Right. I saw the office.”
She said nothing. We were drifting away from each other like continents.
I paid the check and gave her my card. “If anything turns up—anything—or if you think of anything . . .”
“I will.” She laid that gaze on me again and I excused myself quickly.
* * *
When Susan called later that night I hoped it was social.
“David? This may sound a little forward, but—”
“I’m sorry, can I call you back in just a few minutes?” Don’t hang up, gorgeous, my phone is tapped. She didn’t speak at first and I didn’t breathe.
“Um . . . sure.”
She gave me her number and I ran down the street to the pay phone and called her back, almost panting.
“Can you come over?”
My heart did a double take but it clearly wasn’t a booty call. She lived in the Marina; I had to forgive her for that. Yuppies come in all shapes and sizes. I found a parking space on Chestnut and walked up Bay and found her little complex and rang the bell. She answered the door in a comfortable little sundress that left absolutely nothing to the imagination—or perhaps too much. Mine was running wild.
“I’m so glad you came by. I found something, and it just made me so nervous that I—it sounds stupid, but I just didn’t want to tell you about it over the phone.” It didn’t sound stupid to me.
“Show me.”
She showed me a portable file cabinet, one of those plastic things you get at the Container Store. “I was at Jeffrey’s apartment. He had a small place in the Castro. I was just going through some things and I found this. It was weird—it was stuck in the back of the closet, kind of hidden.” She was getting herself all worked up into a cute frenzy. “I’m sorry—I’m terrible. Can I get you something?”
I settled on a Sierra Nevada and she sat me down at an Ikea table. The apartment was small but tastefully decorated: rich, plush, off-white carpet, family photos, a television that wasn’t quite the center of attention. I figured the kitchen would have china that matched the curtains, and the sheets on her bed probably matched her underwear.
Turns out Dalton was less of a gallery owner than an artist cultivator. He coached his artists and pushed them in directions he found appropriate, and kept intricate files on each of them.
“This is the one I wanted you to see.”
The file, a slim manila folder, was labeled simply, Ashley, and contained a number of neat, handwritten field notes, for lack of a better term. It was beautiful . . . Dalton, that wonderful, perfidious son of a bitch, had mapped out his brain for us. I skimmed over it for the highlights:
Went to show at Project Artaud, 499 Alabama—bullshit Mission School ilk. Collaboration between Jason Masello and the mononymous “Ashley.” Calling it “collaboration” is a travesty; they’re each doing their own thing and apparently hating each other for it. Probably lovers hoping to find a common ground—and failing. Masello is an idiot. Ashley Fenn is a genius.
I jumped. “Fenn? That’s her last name?”
Susan nodded. “I think so. But look at this,” Susan said, flipping past a copy of the gallery guide with a couple photos, descriptions of the works, and another bizarre bio of our Ashley to direct me to another page of Dalton’s notes: Finally went to Ashley’s studio in Bayview.
“Bayview? Pretty rough neighborhood for a young girl.”
“Keep reading.”
Finally went to Ashley’s studio in Bayview. Took a long time to convince her to let me come—she swore me to secrecy, to never tell anyone where it was. Strange—not convinced it WAS her studio—it looked like she brought finished works into an empty space. No sign of any work actually being done there. Regardless, can’t believe one so young has such command of brush, palette, and composition. Like she was born with it. She has a fine eye, is an obsessive observer. You can feel her watching you, it’s almost creepy. Wanted to offer her a solo show immediately, but every painting is a portrait of the same man. Some are complex enough to not be considered just portraits, but . . . no. Encouraged her to branch out; she was indignant. Conversation was strained and difficult. Asked her who the subject was and she said she didn’t know. “I see him in my dreams.” Bullshit. He has to be a lover or a crush. They’re too good, too consistent. She knows him from life—or a thousand photographs. I said, “These are paintings to die for,” and she laughed and said, “They really are. You have no idea.” Woman needs a shrink and a prescription.
I looked up at Susan, who was hovering over me expectantly. I hoped she couldn’t see the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention. She put a hand on the back of my chair. “Paintings to die for,” she said. “That gave me the creeps.”
“Me too.” There was more but I couldn’t concentrate. “Susan, let me have this.”
“David, I’d like to, but I think I should give it to the police. Look at the last page in the file.”
I skipped ahead.
Convinced Ashley to give me a piece for the 5x6 group show. You would think she didn’t want to sell anything. She insisted on absolute secrecy, still won’t tell me her last name—I didn’t divulge that Masello already leaked it. She said, “These paintings could