Part One
Bee rushed through pushing the convertible bed back into the sofa, folding the sheets in with the mattress. Seven thirty; late getting around today. Which meant she’d missed the chance to leave her studio extra early and return, her usual routine to give the landlord the impression she hadn’t spent the night in her studio. She slapped the switches for the overhead lights and rolled the taboret beside the easel. The paint was still fresh enough to use for another session. Good, she thought, because she was running out of colors and didn’t have money for more.
She grabbed a brush and began self-consciously filling in an inconsequential area of the canvas. Just in time, as Mr. Pappas’ car rolled past and into a parking space. Her easel was near the window for north light. It also happened to be the perfect, strategically chosen position for the landlord to see her working as he pulled in. Bee glanced, but only for a second, not wanting to let on she was aware of his arrival.
The other artists in the building all had day jobs and separate homes, and none of them were there most mornings. There was only one other tenant living in the building who he might be looking for: Gary, a spoken word artist. Gary’s performances were improvised, late at night at bars and coffee houses. He was undeniably good, with a powerful voice and good-looking in an unkempt, effortless way. Where the studio was concerned, he wasn’t at all discreet, and Pappas had caught him actually sleeping more than once. He lied and said he was “pulling an all-nighter” which Bee found ridiculous considering his working process.
Soon Bee knew Pappas wasn’t there to see Gary. Rinsing her brush in a coffee can full of turpentine, she heard hard-soled shoes stamping down the hallway. She cringed, bracing for a confrontation. She grabbed a rag and busied herself wiping down the palette when he knocked at the open door. “Beatrice!” he announced. “It’s Dimitris.” She turned and feigned surprise. “Oh, Hi, Mr. Pappas. How are you?” The short, thickly built man walked forward, holding an envelope and a wooden box. “This came for you,” he said, holding up the letter. “You didn’t check your mail coming up?” Bee stiffened and said, “Oh, thank you. I had both hands full.” She stopped short of saying, ‘this morning’; a lie of omission, maybe, but not bald-faced at least.
He reached forward, offering the envelope. Bee stared at it for a moment before accepting it. The stationery was expensive with a gold engraved insignia on the flap; no postmark, hand-delivered. “Looks fancy,” said the landlord. “Maybe somebody wanting to buy a painting, eh?” Bee smiled, relieved. “I hope so!” she said. “This is yours too?” he asked, holding out the box. “Oh, um, yes, that’s for me, thanks,” she said, having no idea whether it was true. She took it and put both on the taboret.
Pappas turned toward the door and said, “OK, I gotta go talk to that poet. He’s been sleeping in the building again. He set up a shower in the bathroom with a hose on the faucet. Can you believe that?” The landlord’s discovery of her improvised shower gave a jolt of panic. Suppressing the urge to confess, she simply rolled her eyes and allowed Pappas to leave, still believing her neighbor was responsible.
Part Two
Bee picked up the wooden box, lifted the latch, and opened the lid. Inside was an assortment of paints that were finely packaged, obviously handmade, along with a bundle of charcoal sticks, the bottom of each wrapped in gold foil… real gold? Couldn’t be, she thought. Probably for Keith on the first floor, a rich, trust-fund brat who copied Old Masters and called himself a “Tintorettist”. She looked at her own, nearly-empty tubes before returning to the contents of the box. Each tube was hand-labeled with a painted color sample.
“Cochineal: Coccineus ex insectis factus/A crimson made of insects”; “Cappagh Brown: Ochra Hiberniae extincta/An extinct umber of Ireland”; “Dragon’s Blood: Lacrimae Draconis Arboris/Tears of the Dragon Tree”. She took one tube from the box: Tartarean Black. The English description was obscured by a dark smear from the color sample, but the Latin, which she could not read, was partly legible: “Mors sequi potest.” The sample looked impossibly dark with a brown halo around the edges, like a burn.
Tyrian Purple, she had heard of in college: an ancient, royal violet. Dragon’s Blood, she recalled, was an obsolete resinous color. Tartarean Black was totally unfamiliar. She loosened the threaded metal cap; a drop of black oozed out. She caught it with her finger and wiped it on the leg of her jeans, already a motley of colorful smears. A thicker paste followed the oily drop onto her palm, which she scraped off with a palette knife and transferred to the taboret, then wiped her hand with a rag. It felt numb.
Bee began to sweat and felt her heart racing. Still panicking over the landlord’s visit, she thought. She wondered how Gary would talk his way out of trouble, with Pappas blaming him for the shower. She resolved to apologize later, then set aside the box and moved to the couch, rubbing her numb hand and wrist. Leaning back, she took a few deep breaths to calm herself and closed her eyes.
Part Three
Bee opened her eyes after what seemed like only a moment, but through the window, she could see that the skies were black. She looked at the paint stain, still on her hand—the numb sensation had subsided—then at the unopened envelope. She could see that, on the gold-embossed heraldry, there appeared to be an arm holding… a whip? She teased it open, careful not to rip the outer envelope or deep crimson liner. A crisp lettersheet was inside, closed with a cranberry-colored wax seal with the same insignia, clearer in wax: an arm with a wide brace around the wrist, holding what looked like a cat-o-nine-tails. She peeled off the seal without breaking it and set it aside. The letter was hand-written in a brick-colored ink, in a precise but somewhat brutal hand that contrasted against the refinement of the stationery.
“Miss Beatrice DiMarco,
I write on behalf of my client who wishes to hire your services to paint his portrait. All materials will be supplied by my office. You shall have the use of one of the client’s suits of clothes and a mannequin to begin work. The client shall grant one sitting for you to capture a likeness in sketches. You shall have three weeks to complete the work, and another three for the work to dry sufficiently for delivery to His Honor, at which time you shall surrender all remaining materials and sketches.
My client proposes payment of twenty-five thousand dollars. I shall arrive in person tomorrow at three o’clock in the morning to settle terms.
Yours sincerely,
Eric Gavran”
Tomorrow? Bee thought. That’s tonight, early morning at three! Who does business at that hour? She began tidying the studio furiously.
Part Four
She spent the morning and afternoon cleaning, straightening, and struggling with herself over whether to accept another portrait commission. She’d promised herself, never again. The last one had seemed like torture: a vain attorney’s secret gift for his wife.
She remembered his insistence on his resemblance to Steve McQueen, crying over the sketch which he said made him look sick. Endless revisions, demanding that the Rolex watch be painted out and replaced with his new Cartier, a gift from his wife. She remembered her intense relief when she saw his obituary, the portrait still unfinished but paid in advance. She kept the money—her fee for tolerating the man— and tucked the canvas away to paint over later, trying to forget the whole thing.
As Bee swept the dust from the floor and gathered the paint-stained rags, she looked out the large studio windows and saw that it was already dark. She must have lost the entire day cleaning, she thought, recalling her promise to herself. But the last two shows produced almost no sales, and she’d had to choose between the apartment and her studio. Always one missed alarm away from eviction, she’d have to accept.
Bee skipped dinner, too nervous to eat anything… minutes until three, and she was feeling ill. The studio looked fantastic, though, she thought. The Turkish rug and the old sleeper sofa looked positively elegant. Four of her best paintings, complete with the stylized honeybee that was her signature, were displayed on easels. She wore her favorite peasant blouse with a vintage citrine necklace and earrings. These, she paired with platform sandals to give her a little height—she despised looking up at a client’s eyes. Her thick black hair had developed chic white streaks at the temples, which she emphasized with an upswept style held by vintage barrettes.
Bee began to feel her confidence grow, now certain she would complete this commission in record time and have enough money to create the entire next year’s work. She turned to straighten the magazines on the table when a man walked through the open studio door at three o’clock precisely.
Part Five
“Good morning, Miss DiMarco? I’m Attorney Gavran,” he said in a friendly, but restrained voice. “Have you considered our terms as outlined in the letter?” Bee cleared her throat and replied, “Ahem, yes, I have. I think I might be able to accept the commission.” Gavran nodded, “Good, good. The formal terms include some additional details we should go over. May we sit?”
He gestured toward her dining table, a high-50s formica and chrome kitchen table expanded with a pull-out leaf. “Absolutely,” Bee said, trying to maintain an air of control. This was, after all, her studio, and he would be the lucky one if she chose to do the portrait. Gavran spread a few papers across the table, hand-written on fine paper. The cover sheet had the distinctive coat of arms, with the whip-wielding hand and some Latin beneath. Noticing Bee staring at it, Gavran said. “It’s a scourge. My client’s coat of arms,” he said. “Officium sine misericordia… Duty without pity.”
Scanning the room top to bottom, he said, “Beautiful carpet. Anatolian.” She reflexively said, “Uh, yes… I think.” He knelt down stiffly and touched the rug in a bizarre display. “The motif is unmistakably of the region,” he said, moving his hand across the patterned fibers. “I have been there myself, long ago. There, the tree of life with cypresses… grief and eternity.” The strange man appeared to tear up momentarily. It seemed so theatrical, yet so genuine, Bee began to wonder if this was an elaborate joke.
Gavran clumsily got to his feet, dabbed tears from his eyes with a handkerchief, and composed himself. Taking a document from the papers on the table, he said, “And now, back to the Tree of Knowledge, so to speak.” Bee nearly groaned audibly at the ham-fisted segue. He ran a manicured finger with a shiny, too-long nail along the lines of text. “My earlier correspondence indicated that the client will provide all materials, including colors, which I see you already have,” She looked at the paint box and thought, Mine after all, not for Keith.
Gavran continued: “All sketches and studies for the final work shall be property of the client, to be delivered with the painting.” “No erasers?” Bee interjected, impertinently. “No, Miss DiMarco,” he replied, smiling at the suggestion. “My client believes that there are no mistakes, that we must own every mark we leave. No erasers.”
Gavran drew a breath before continuing. “This likeness—and this is of utmost importance—must be captured only using the materials provided. No cheap, manufactured colors, no common papers, no cotton canvas; no ordinary materials. Is that clear?” Bee nodded, and he continued, “Good. Payment will be made in full upon your acceptance. Should you fail to satisfy the client or violate these terms in any way, you agree to make revisions, corrections, and any changes to the portrait sufficient to satisfy the client.”
The mention of revisions provoked instant anxiety. What if he turns out to be difficult? She could find herself painting some rich eccentric for… God knows how long? Gavran, studying her expression, said, “It’s only a contingency, my dear. If the original portrait is as good as these,” he assured her, waving his hand somewhat theatrically toward the easels, “…and you honor all terms, then you have nothing to worry about.”
She countered, “I’m at a point where I really need to be focused on my own work. I wasn’t planning on any more commissioned portraits, especially now while I’m getting ready for a show.” Except she knew there wasn’t a scheduled show. The last one had been a disaster after she’d been found out trying to sell works out-of-studio, behind the dealer’s back.
“Let me be candid, Miss DiMarco. Your situation couldn’t be more apparent.” He pointed at the sofa. Bee could see a corner of the bedsheets now visible between cushions. “You have cheated clients and cheated dealers. You have lied and deceived, and caused suffering as a consequence.”
Her thin confidence crumbled, and she had no reply. Gavran filled the silence, softening his tone. “Miss DiMarco, this commission could provide you with the means to continue painting,” he said, glancing at the flattened tubes of paint on the taboret “…and to secure a permanent studio. Unless you prefer to rot on that couch until the landlord has you bodily removed.”
He smiled slyly and continued: “I shouldn’t admit this, but you were my client’s first choice. I had another in mind, but he insisted. If I can’t persuade you, he’ll be inconsolable. I would positively dread delivering such news. Do your very best work, follow the conditions to the letter, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
Bee wasn’t sure whether to believe any of this. She felt her temper rising; anger at the pushy and manipulative attorney, anger at her failures, anger at not being able to choose the work she wanted to do. Before she could restrain herself, her response was out of her mouth: “One hundred thousand,” she said. “I need one hundred thousand dollars.”
Gavran smiled, revealing the full breadth of his yellow teeth. “That is easily within the limit of my authority. Agreed.” Bee immediately regretted not demanding more. Gavran placed a stack of papers on the formica table and took a pen from his pocket—an elegant one with a black lacquered barrel and a dark red gemstone cabochon on the cap that looked like a perfect drop of blood. Holding the paper sideways he scribbled a small figure eight at the bottom and said, “Here, please.” She braced herself, took the pen, and signed.
“Thank you. One moment please,” he said, walking toward the door. He exited briefly, then returned with a briefcase. “Your payment,” he said, placing the case on the floor next to her. “Was… that out in the hallway this whole time?” Bee asked incredulously. Gavran nodded. “I always come prepared.” Bee said, “You just left a hundred thousand dollars in cash in the hallway, unattended?”
“Not quite,” Gavran said, matter-of-factly. He snapped his fingers and a tall man entered, head down as he ducked through the doorway. His brown slacks showed an inch of stained white socks below the cuffs, and he wore a yellow short-sleeved, button-down shirt. A butch-waxed flat-top haircut sharpened a disconcerting expression of suppressed anger. In large fists he held a stretched canvas wrapped in paper under one arm, and a portfolio of paper, a tailor’s dummy, and a garment bag under the other.
He placed everything but the garment bag on the Turkish rug. The garments were draped across the back of the sofa, placed with gentle care that seemed almost comical in contrast to the man’s slouching gracelessness. Taking a creased canary-yellow paper and ballpoint pen from his back pocket, he thrust them at Bee, clicking the button on the end of the pen with a bulky, calloused thumb. She looked over the list of items and signed at the bottom. He snatched back the pen and paper, turned to Gavran and nodded his head, then left, dragging his feet with each step.
With that, the attorney donned his hat and gathered his papers. “Thank you for your time, Miss DiMarco. I will be in touch to arrange the in-person sitting. Oh, and a word of advice? I’d get right to work if I were you.”
Part Six
After Gavran left, Bee leaned heavily on the closed door, contemplating the task ahead. She looked out the windows; nearly five o’clock in the morning and still dark. She set the dummy upright and picked up the garment bag. Unzipping it, she could smell something like leather, smoke, and some kind of spice. Probably aftershave or cologne, she thought. Inside the bag was a suit, two piece, hand-stitched and made of luxurious fabric. It was a lustrous black, and the double-vented jacket had a crimson satin lining with a label: “Francesco Datini”. She congratulated herself for having guessed it was Italian.
Bee draped the jacket over the dummy and stood back. Big guy, she thought; impressive how a good jacket can make a tailor’s dummy look so elegant. She opened the portfolio and found a generous stack of deckle-edged laid paper, handmade with no watermark.
She clipped a sheet of paper to a drawing board and took a piece of charcoal. “Thorns!” she exclaimed out loud, as the silvery-black stick pricked her finger. Rose charcoal? she wondered. After sanding off the remaining points, she began to draw. The lines and tones glided onto the paper flawlessly. She had never used such fine materials, she thought, and wondered how she’d ever go back to the student-grade charcoal and thrifty sketch pads she’d been using. The head and hands of the subject were simply outlined, but the jacket transformed into a regal figure with a commanding presence.
After doing a series of what she was sure were some of the best drawings she’d ever produced, she unwrapped the canvas. It looked strangely familiar: the way the corners were folded, the priming applied, even the copper tacks that she still insisted on using, while everyone else used staples. But it couldn’t be one of hers; the fabric was a fine, dark linen of a type she couldn’t afford. Pentimenti visible through the priming suggested an earlier painting, covered up. It was the only canvas provided, however, so she couldn’t waste time puzzling over it.
Bee clamped the canvas in place and put a clean palette on the taboret. She deposited a small amount of Cassell Earth at one end and some lead white—“Cerussa” on the label—opposite the two dark colors. The paint box contained a small bottle of a liquid solvent, unlabeled, which she put in a jar, leaving a portion for later. It smelled like anise, with undertones of lilies—a familiar scent, though she couldn’t place it. It evoked a feeling of vague sadness which she couldn’t identify.
After sketching a general layout, she began to apply the dark pigments in thin, dilute passages. The figure developed quickly with none of the distortions that Bee usually had to correct. She worked for hours and entirely lost track of time. Pausing to rinse brushes and replenish colors, it occurred to her that she had no idea how long she’d been working. In fact, she had no clue as to how much time had passed since she had signed the agreement, since Gavran left.
It was still pitch black outside and she hadn’t heard a noise in the building. Could it have been a whole day? She wiped her hands in an anxious hurry with the stained rag at the easel, smearing them with a tar-colored mixture.
Driven by a crescendo of panic, Bee sped to the studio door and grasped the knob, desperate to bolt from the room, rush down the stairs and out onto Spring Street. She pulled the door open and found Gavran standing there, a frightened look on his face. “Oh, Miss DiMarco, you startled me! If it’s quite convenient, may we speak?” Bee watched, stunned, as Gavran walked past her and went directly to the easel, ignoring her distress. “My word!” he exclaimed. “Why, it’s simply… words fail. Miss DiMarco, my client couldn’t have chosen better. You are a true artist. And I can speak with some authority on the subject, you know.”
Bee stood silent, overwhelmed by the strange man’s gushing praise. “My client will make himself available immediately for an in-the-flesh sitting. He will arrive within the hour. Please make yourself ready and prepare the studio. Oh, and Miss DiMarco… it’s best that you do not speak to him during the session. ” Gavran, who hadn’t even doffed his hat, now rushed out to bring… Who was she about to meet? Within the hour? What hour? she thought.
She rolled the larger easel aside and set up a smaller one she used for drawings. With only one canvas and none to spare, she couldn’t afford to work directly in wet paint. She took a cake of soap and poured a bowl of water from the jug she carried each day from the washroom downstairs. As she cleaned her hands, she saw deep stains remaining. She’d have to worry about that later, she thought. Once they were clean enough and dry, she clipped another sheet of the exquisite paper to the drawing board and took out some charcoal. She had scarcely finished when the door swung open. The client had arrived.
Part Seven
Bee stared at her subject for a long moment. He was handsome, with olive skin and thick, black hair groomed impeccably. He took off his overcoat and draped it carelessly across the couch, then tossed his jacket on top . He removed his cufflinks and set them on the table. Bee recognized the crest. “Scourge,” she said, unconsciously. The client turned and met her stare. She felt a thrill of fear, like the time a lion roared at her at the zoo when she was a girl.
Bee watched him rolling up his sleeves, exposing lean, muscular arms. She found herself fascinated. She’d seen a college boyfriend sloppily roll his sleeves into a constricting band around the elbow, but this was different. The client first folded the sleeve upon itself, then deftly rolled it two turns to a flawless, loose cuff of fabric around the upper arm. Long strides took him to an antique wing chair near the easel. He fell naturally into the perfect pose.
Bee did not speak, as instructed, and began to sketch as the subject sat as still as the Sphynx. The likeness came easily, but there was something absent in the drawings. She did drawing after drawing, one flawless capture after another. Technically flawless, but the eyes were a void: onyx stones that took in all and reflected nothing. She felt frustration grow and stepped away from the easel.
The client stood up and gracefully performed a hurdler’s stretch on each long leg. She walked toward the easel, comparing a sketch to the figure on the canvas. “It’s splendid,” the client said, abruptly breaking the silence as he stretched his sinewy neck and broad shoulders. “You’re more than talented. You’re great. You are a great artist. You know that.” Bee faced him and said, “Yes, I do.”
He stood beside her and took the drawing in his own, bronzed hand, holding it up to the canvas. “It’s perfect.” She shook her head. “It’s a good likeness, but…” The client interrupted, raising his baritone enough to surround her with its echo : “It’s perfect. The very best I’ve ever owned.” Bee felt herself bristle at the word “owned”. It was her work, she thought. The client might take it home, but it’s still hers. She fought the urge to correct him and said instead, “Thanks.”
He unrolled his sleeves without a crease and gathered the cufflinks. With his jacket on and coat draped across one arm, he said, “This was an absolute pleasure, Miss DiMarco. I’d have liked to have sat in this chair forever.” Bee finally felt herself start to relax. “I didn’t expect you to… Gavran said I shouldn’t talk to you during the session,” she said, unsure if it was wise to have said it. “Did he? I suppose he would,” the client said. “I deal with a lot of very challenging individuals in my position, Beatrice, and the interactions aren’t always pleasant.” He placed the palms of his hands over his eyes momentarily, then looked back up, slightly refreshed. “Well, thank you for providing a quiet hour. I don’t get many of those.”
Beatrice replied, “Well, thank you for the opportunity.” The client smiled for the first time since arrival; a slight upturn at the corners of the mouth that was surprising in its charm and attractiveness. Bee had been looking at his face for an hour and hadn’t seen a hint of it until now. She found herself waiting in anticipation for his next words. “I was afraid,” he said, still smiling, “…that you might find this commission tedious. I’m sure you have other work you’d rather be doing.” She replied, “Oh, no! It was great… I mean, you were great. Thank you… for being my model.” The client dropped his smile and met her gaze one final time, holding it a second too long for comfort. He offered his hand. For an instant, she wasn’t sure would happen next, but she reached out and grasped it. He gave a gentle handshake, and turned her hand to look at the black stain, still visible. “Your model… If you say so, Beatrice,” he said. And with that, he was gone.
Part Eight
Bee looked at the drawing. Best he’d ever seen, she thought, already dreading releasing it to the client. Then she remembered a technique she’d learned for making a copy of a drawing. She placed the drawing face-up on the formica table and pulled a sheet of paper from one of her cheap pads. Placing it over the drawing, she tacked it down to the tabletop with tape at the corners.
Using a spoon, she burnished the back of the top sheet, back and forth, systematically until the entire sheet was polished and smooth. Then, removing the tape, she peeled the sheet free. On it was a faint reverse image of the drawing beneath. The original was only slightly lighter, but still presentable. She slipped the copy back into the pad and turned her attention back to the painting.
Positioning the original next to the easel, and replenishing the palette, Bee began to fill in the subject’s features. She worked continuously until it was done. Having lost all sense of time and absorbed with the work, she no longer cared how long she’d been isolated in the studio. Days or weeks, it no longer mattered, because she now knew her worth: “A great artist,” he had said. She had neither eaten nor slept since work commenced, yet felt only the drive to complete the painting. And then it was finished. Perfect and stunning, she thought. The best she’d ever done.
Three weeks to allow for drying was the condition, Bee recalled. Time to spend some of the small fortune she’d just earned. Her first stop would be the art supply store to re-stock. She wondered what would seem good enough after the incredible materials the client provided. She tried to think of all the top-shelf brands she’d always wanted to try, the fine Belgian linens, the very best handmade brushes, which would be all she’d ever use from now on. She opened the case and looked at the money. Crisp, new bills, more than she’d ever seen. Then, with a sudden sound of the doorknob turning, she slammed the case shut.
She turned her head to see the door already open, Gavran staring directly at her. “Miss DiMarco,” he said in a grave tone. “We need to speak.” He entered, moving directly for the formica table. “Please sit,” he said, and pointed at a chair. “The painting is done, Mr. Gavran,” she said, gesturing toward the still-wet canvas. Holding up a hand to halt her, he said, “You are, in fact, not finished, Miss DiMarco. Not to the client’s satisfaction”.
“He hasn’t even seen it,” she argued. “That’s of no consequence,” he countered quickly. “The fact of the matter is, you are in violation of our terms. You have made a copy of the client’s property.” Bee argued, “A copy of his property? I did not.” Gavran closed his eyes tightly and interrupted: “The drawing, Miss DiMarco. You made a copy. On common, vulgar paper. Don’t try to deny it. It is my business to know.”
She raised her voice: “So what! It’s my work, I’m entitled…” He shouted over her: “Entitled? You are without entitlement, Miss DiMarco. Without privilege. Without any name worth having. Because you have violated the client’s terms, you shall continue to work to his satisfaction.” “For how long?” she said, in desperation. “As long as required. For all time, if need be,” he replied, through gritted teeth. Gavran snapped his fingers, summoning the crude man once again, who was now smiling a terrible smile. He carried a stack of canvases, threw them down, and left, returning with ream after ream of the same, fine paper.
Trip after trip, parcel after parcel, the room filled with luxurious art materials, in terrifying quantity. Bee felt the room spin. Gavran grabbed her by the stained hand and led her to the couch. “Rest a moment, Miss DiMarco… but only a moment. You have a lot of work to do.”
Part Nine
Pappas stared at Bee as she worked furiously on yet another portrait of her latest subject. In fact, it had been her only subject for months since returning from the hospital: a dark-haired figure with coal-black eyes.
Pappas reached toward a tube of paint from a box on the table. Keith grabbed his wrist and said, “Don’t touch it! Gary says it might be poison.” Pappas asked, “What the hell is it?” Keith replied, “Paint. Gary knows some Latin and thinks it’s some kind of exotic color she must have ordered.”
Irritated, Pappas asked, “Why the hell is it still here?” Keith shrugged his shoulders. “When I tried to throw it away she practically attacked me. I want to get it to the doctors; I think she might have gotten some on her skin. Gary is trying to research it. He thinks maybe that’s why she was like… how she was when we found her.” He looked at the couch, which Bee had ripped apart with nails and teeth.
Pappas shook his head. “Hard to imagine paint can make you go crazy like that.” Keith handed Pappas a letter on elegant stationery. “We found this in her hand.” Pappas read aloud,
“Miss DiMarco,
We haven’t met but I recently discovered that my late husband had commissioned a portrait from you. If it’s still in your possession, it would mean the world to me to have you complete it. He’d been ill for some time and I think he intended the painting as something for me to remember him by. I expect, knowing my husband, you worked hard for your fee and I’m sure he was a little difficult. I will pay you the full amount promised, and you may keep whatever he already paid. I would like to visit your studio personally and learn all about your time with my husband. Please contact me to arrange our visit.
Thank you,
Gail Forbes-Franklin”
Pappas said, “Generous woman. She called me trying to locate Bee, and when she learned she was in the hospital, Mrs. Forbes-Franklin insisted on sponsoring her studio.”
Keith nodded. “Yes, I admit I was a little jealous of that portrait. At first, I was envious of the commission, but when I saw the painting… It was so good, you know, I think it might be the best she’s ever done.”
Pappas said, “Better than these. That figure, over and over. I hope she gets this out of her system.”
Keith lowered his head. “When I picked her up from the hospital, they told me it might be a long, hard road ahead. When she started working again, they thought it would be good for her, but…” He trailed off. Pappas said, “I knew she was living here, you know.” Keith stared, unsure of what to say. “Gary took the blame for that shower. He’s a good guy.” Keith smiled and nodded.
“Okay, I gotta go. Mrs. Forbes-Franklin wants to put in a real bathroom with a shower on each floor for the artists so they can clean up after work. Maybe a good idea, since…” He pointed at the tube of paint.
As Pappas left, Keith watched Bee make a new signature mark—an arm wielding a scourge—in the lower right corner. She opened the folio of fine paper, a gift from her benefactor, and clipped a sheet to the drawing board. Taking up another gold-wrapped stick of charcoal, she looked at the empty wing chair next to the easel and began to trace the same subject, her only subject, repeated again and again, as though driven to do so… forever.
