Crazybone by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online Page A

and started the car. The horse smell went away with me, just as I’d known it would.
     
    This being Thursday, Anita Purcell Fine Arts was open for business. Not that they were doing any when I walked in; the place was empty except for a twentyish russet-haired woman sitting at a desk, paging through a catalogue. Either Anita Purcell was very choosy, or fine arts were currently at a premium: the gallery’s display stock was on the skimpy side, so much so that the big, white-walled room had an incomplete look, as if Ms. Purcell were in the process of moving in or moving out. Half a dozen large oils and watercolors, the same number of smaller paintings, a couple of marble sculptures, a grouping of pottery and another of porcelain figurines — that was all there was. The pottery layout was of Sheila Hunter s distinctive blue- and green-glazed, black-design items, and at that there were less than a dozen of them.
    The woman hopped to her feet, smiling and eager, as if I were the first potential customer in a long while. She had sea-green eyes, and when I looked into them I felt a little sad. No there there. Like so many individuals you encounter these days, of all types and dispositions. Genetic pod people capable of superficial thought and basic emotions, existing in personal spaces that were dimly lit and mostly empty. The dumbing down of America not only continues, it seems to be approaching epidemic proportions.
    She was not Anita Purcell, of course; her name was Gretchen Kiley, she was Ms. Purcell’s niece, and she was minding the store while her aunt was away at an auction in Los Angeles. She knew Sheila Hunter, oh, yes, but not very well, and wasn’t it a terrible thing about her husband? She guessed Mrs. Hunter and her aunt were friends, and no, she didn’t know any of Mrs. Hunter’s other friends. Why was I asking? I told her I was conducting a routine investigation on behalf of Jack Hunter’s insurance company. Then I took a small dyer because I’d run out of direct questions.
    “Does your aunt have any friends, artists, customers named Karen?” I asked.
    “Karen?” Blank look. “Uh, why do you want to know that?”
    “It pertains to my investigation.”
    “Oh, it does? Well, I can’t think of anyone. I don’t know that I should— Oh, wait. Someone named Karen that Mrs. Hunter knows, too, is that what you mean?”
    “That’s right.”
    Ms. Kiley gnawed at a well-shaped upper lip. “About a year ago I overheard Aunt Anita and Mrs. Hunter talking about different kinds of art. I mean, I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything, I just happened to be here while they were talking. Aunt Anita said she wished she could get some really good stained glass and Mrs. Hunter said she knew someone who made some. A stained-glass artist.”
    “Someone named Karen.”
    “I think so. I think that was the name.”
    “Did she mention a last name?”
    Ms. Kiley cudgeled her memory; the effort made her frown and chew on her lip again. “No, I don’t think so. Anyway, I can’t remember if she did.”
    “Did she happen to say where Karen lives?”
    “Up the coast. That’s right, she said ‘Karen has a studio up the coast.’ ”
    “Is that all? No town or specific area?”
    “No. She stopped right after she said that.”
    “How do you mean, stopped?”
    “All of a sudden. You know, the way you do when somebody interrupts you.”
    Or the way you do when you’re sorry you let something slip. “Did she say anything else about Karen? That she was related to her, for instance?”
    “Related? No, I’d remember that.”
    “Did your aunt seem interested in seeing some of Karen’s stained glass?”
    “Yes, she did. Mrs. Hunter said Karen was very busy and had outlets for all her work, but she’d tell her and maybe she’d send some things down for Aunt Anita to look at.”
    “Did Karen ever follow through?”
    “Send anything, you mean? I guess not, because we don’t have any stained glass, at least I haven’t