Death of an Artist by Kate Wilhelm Read Free Book Online Page A

not picked up one of the cards with the name and address of the gallery where Stef’s art was on display. Her painting of Newport Bay had impressed him, and he wanted to see more of her work.
    That Friday after Dave left, Tony cleaned the shop and stood for a moment considering whether he would return after he had some dinner. With all of Saturday and Sunday at his disposal, there was little point in working that night, he decided. Back to the apartment, maybe watch a movie on TV, read, relax. For the first time in his adult life, he had time to make such decisions and feel good about them. That was a gift he had never expected to receive, and he was grateful for it. He was sleeping well, a deep, restful sleep, with no traffic noise, no airplanes overhead, no middle-of-the-night emergencies, no difficult investigation eating away at him day and night. His hip still ached, but not constantly and not with the intensity as months before. His knee seldom was a problem. This place was turning out to be exactly the right place, as if all his life it had been here waiting for him, possibly calling him, and he had been deaf and blind.
    He was ready to leave the shop when the door opened and Stef walked in. He knew who she was the minute he saw her, before she said, “Hello, Tony. I’m Stef.”
    â€œIf you’re looking for Dave, he already left.”
    â€œI know. I saw him drive home. I’m looking for you. I want to show your box in Marnie’s shop. Dave said it’s up to you.”
    â€œWhere your painting is? In that display?”
    She nodded. “I’ll change it Monday, hang something else, show something else. I want your box in the group. I like it.”
    â€œThanks.”
    She looked garish with pink hair, her lips exactly the same hot pink, too much eye makeup. Every fingernail was a different color, the full spectrum of color. She was wearing slim jeans that accentuated her thinness, and a bulky, black sweatshirt that somehow seemed to emphasize it. Her wrists were nearly skeletal, as were her hands. He watched her silently as she moved about the shop touching the tools, the lathe, and stopped in front of his bench, where he had covered a piece he was working on with a beach towel. She pulled it aside, glanced at him, and said, “That’s yours, isn’t it?”
    He nodded. It was a tabletop with a tulip inlay pattern. Parts of the slender inlaid stem bulged slightly.
    She touched it. “What’s wrong with it? It’s too big or something.”
    â€œDrying. It will shrink and I’ll smooth it down the rest of the way.”
    She replaced the towel and looked at him. “How can you make wood bend like that? Why doesn’t it break?”
    â€œI soak it until it gets pliable.”
    â€œI wondered how you did the box. It’s beautiful. How much is it?”
    â€œNot for sale.”
    She nodded. “Good. Art isn’t a commodity, a product priced by the pound.”
    â€œI was very impressed by Newport Bay . That’s a beautiful painting. Where is your work on display?”
    â€œIt isn’t.” She was moving toward the door. “You didn’t answer my question. Can I include the box at the shop?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’ll change things on Monday morning. Get ready for spring break, a lot of visitors. Drop in and have a look later.” She opened the door, then turned again to face him. “Come by the house tomorrow after you get through here. I’ll give you a private showing.”
    â€œOkay,” he said after a moment.
    â€œThe rear house, not the other one. That’s Marnie’s. I’ll have her over, too. Time for you to start socializing or something.” She left as swiftly as she had come, and he leaned against the bench and laughed softly. Stef, the wild one, he thought, didn’t beat around the bush.
    *   *   *
    H E LOCKED UP and walked toward his apartment