A Killing at Cotton Hill (26 page)

He goes out for a time and comes back with an envelope. “See if you can use these,” he says. I look at the two tickets, which are for an Astros game a couple of weeks from now. I give him a big grin, as if I know where the seats are, to let him know how pleased I am.

“And I'd like to put you up at the Four Seasons that night, so you don't have to drive right back home afterwards. Just ask for the room in your name, and it will be ready for you.”

“That's very kind. I'll take you up on it. Sounds like a good time.”

He sees me to the front desk and has the receptionist stamp my parking ticket. It seems that with the magic stamp I won't have to pay a dime. We part with hearty handshakes and good will all around. Once I'm outside, I allow myself to feel the satisfaction of knowing the Underwoods are going to reap what they've sowed. But I don't get to stick with the feeling long. I still don't know if they had anything to do with Dora Lee's death or the theft of my art, and at the moment I don't feel any closer to knowing who did either crime.

It's only eleven o'clock, so I stop at a little café near the art gallery for an early lunch. Jeanne and I ate there a time or two and they have substantial sandwiches. While I eat, I let memories of Jeanne's and my excursions to the gallery drift through my mind. I would love to have shared with her my excitement about Greg's paintings. Suddenly I have a sinking of the heart, hoping I haven't raised Greg's expectations for nothing. Manning will be polite, I know that. Even if he doesn't see much promise in the pieces I've brought, he'll say that Greg should keep at his work, and to come back in a few years, when he has matured. He'll tell me Greg needs to go to art school. But I'm hoping for more than that, and I know Greg is, too. I'm sure Manning won't be calling a press conference, saying he has the next de Kooning or Rauschenberg on his hands, but somewhere in between would be nice.

Before I leave the café, I use their pay phone to call Jenny to find out if Greg has been released. But I just get her answering machine.

When I walk into Manning's gallery, the woman who relieves me of Greg's canvasses tells me that Mr. Manning will be in soon. In fact I'm half an hour early, so I use the time to look at the works he has up for sale. Manning has all kinds of art. Every dealer has to have variety. But it's clear his taste tends toward the contemporary.

I stop in front of a small painting that takes my eye by a woman I've never heard of, Melinda Buie, and all at once I miss Jeanne so much I almost have to walk outside to gather myself. Her presence is strong with me most of the time, but this is a different order altogether. I can hear her lilting voice exclaiming over the virtues of the painting, see her eyes alight with the pleasure of sharing an artist's passion.

All of a sudden Manning is at my elbow. “This reminds me of a couple of the pictures you and Jeanne bought,” he says. “You ought to think about buying it.”

My voice is a croak. “I haven't thought about adding to my collection for a while now.”

“It would fit right in,” he says, not knowing what a gift he has given me. I can still have Jeanne with me if I am willing to make a bold purchase on my own.

“I'll sure think about it.”

Manning glances around the room, which is empty except for me. “I thought the artist was coming with you.”

I tell him that something came up, and that rather than reschedule, I decided to keep our appointment. “I can bring him back another time,” I say.

“Fine. Maybe that's best anyway, to let me make an assessment before I meet him. Let's take a look at what you've brought.”

The woman who greeted me when I first came in has taken Greg's pieces to a back room and set them up on easels in their own little show. Seeing them set up like this, I realize that I was anxious that they would diminish in this world of proven art. But I needn't have worried. As the woman who set them up leaves the room, I see in her eyes that I've not been mistaken. She casts a glance at me that combines the calculation of a dealer with the wonder of discovery.

Manning takes his time, pausing in front of each one to take in the whole of it. The longer he takes, the more I relax. I've heard the art world described as being as fickle and unkind and capricious as a jaded coquette. Sometimes she makes mistakes and takes a temporary lover who in the end doesn't suit. But she recognizes the best when she sees it, and embraces it. Finally Manning begins to nod.

He turns. “How long has this artist been painting?” he asks.

“Since he was kid,” I say. And then I laugh. “He's only twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two?” Manning shakes his head.

“His daddy painted some, and I guess Greg took to it right away.”

Manning puts his hand to his chin and strokes it, his eyes inward. “What was his father's name?”

“Oliver Marcus. But you wouldn't have heard of him. He and Greg are light years apart.”

“Well, he certainly passed something onto Greg. Now let me think what I can do with this work. I'll be right back.”

I'm wishing like hell that Greg could be here with me to watch Manning take his painting seriously. But I have a feeling he's going to see the reaction many times in his life.

While I wait for Manning to return, my eye is drawn to a bunch of landscapes standing in a row on the floor against the wall. They must have been on these easels, and taken down to display Greg's paintings. I suppose Manning keeps them in this back room because it isn't really his style. I normally wouldn't give them a moment's notice, but one of them in particular catches my interest.

Manning returns, rubbing his hands like someone about to throw the dice. “If it's all right, I'd like to keep these pictures. I want to show them to a couple of people. It's a hard time in the art world right now, but I know some people who like to encourage young artists.”

I tell him I'm sure Greg will be happy for me to leave them. Then I point to the landscape that caught my attention. “George, is that by William Kern?”

Manning glances at the landscapes propped against the wall. “Yes, it is. Good call. I wouldn't have thought he'd interest you, but he's very popular right now.” He takes one of Greg's pictures off its easel and leans it against the wall and puts the small landscape in its place.

“Kern was never appreciated in his lifetime, but it's one of those art things that drives a dealer crazy. He's come into fashion, and his work is selling like hotcakes. Unfortunately this one is sold, but I can try to find you one if you like it.” He steps back and looks at it critically. “As you know, this kind of art really isn't in my line, I just happened to come by this one a few years ago when I bought an estate collection. And I'm certainly glad I did. This sale is going to keep my gallery going for some time. How did you recognize it?”

“I know someone who has one.”

“You tell whoever owns it that if they have a mind to sell it, there will never be a better time.”

And just like that my memory clicks into place. I can see Caroline standing with the article about William Kern in her hand, telling me I can throw it away because her mother sold the piece a while back. Wayne said so. And my question is, if Wayne hadn't seen Dora Lee since he was a boy, how did he know that?

“Do you know a gallery called Houston Antiques 'N Art?” I ask Manning.

He takes a second to respond. “It's not really a gallery. More like an antique store, loosely speaking. I don't know it well, but I've met the owner, Dallas Morton. He's got a good reputation. Why do you ask?”

“I wonder if you would mind calling him for me and giving me an introduction. I need to go and see him while I'm in town.”

He says he'll be glad to do that. While he phones Morton, I try Jenny again. This time she answers, but her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her. “Samuel,” she whispers, “Greg's back home. I'm in court. Can't talk.” She switches off. But I've heard all I need to.

When Manning returns, he escorts me to the door. I pause to take one more look at the Buie painting and tell Manning that if he wouldn't mind, I'd like him to set it aside for a few days, that I'd like to mull over the purchase of it.

“Take your time,” he says. “And with the market being what it is, I think I can get you a good price for it.”

Even with Manning's precise directions, I get good and lost. Houston is a sprawling city that covers a lot of territory, with freeways that are so badly marked that you'd think the city planners' philosophy is that if you don't know where you're going, you shouldn't be here. My frustration is compounded by the turmoil in my head. I'd been ready to believe that the owner, Dallas Morton, was a killer who had taken advantage of an old woman's vulnerability. But now my thoughts are tending another way. I'm impatient to get to the heart of the matter.

Finally I find Houston Antiques 'N Art, located in a mall that stretches about as big as Dora Lee's farm. The place is completely different from Manning's gallery. It looks like a warehouse, crammed up tight with fine pieces of furniture butted up next to some of the ugliest junk I've ever laid eyes on.

When Dallas Morton greets me, I recognize his voice from when I called Houston Antiques 'N Art right after Dora Lee was killed, trying to find out if Caroline might work there. It seems like an age ago. But now at least I have an inkling of why this man's card was in Dora Lee's possession.

Morton is a rangy man who wears clothes that makes him look like he's ready to grab his partner at a square dance. His pale blue shirt has ruffles down the front and he's wearing tight black pants and cowboy boots with high heels. It's all finished off with a bolo tie with a piece of turquoise the size of my fist. He wears a silver and turquoise bracelet and rings to match.

I introduce myself, and Morton tells me he's pleased to help me any way he can. I expect by the time we're done he'll change his mind about that. He takes me into his office so we can speak privately. Even Morton's office has its share of goods, stacked in corners and around on the floor.

“Excuse the mess,” he says. “We're finding these days that people are in need of money, and we're getting more consignments than we usually do. I'm going to have to rent some warehouse space. I may be one of the few businessmen in town looking to hire someone to help me, rather than laying off.”

He sits us down in chairs constructed of elk horn that are more comfortable than they look.

“So you're selling as well as buying,” I say. It pays to ease into difficult subjects with a little small talk.

He touches the turquoise holding his tie, like it's a talisman. “Yes, I'm probably the biggest purveyor of antique goods in Texas, and people from all over contact me when they're in need of a particular piece.”

“You buy and sell art as well as antiques?”

“That's actually how I started out. If I could wave a magic wand right now, I'd have the kind of storefront that George Manning runs. But it didn't work out that way. One thing led to another, and this is the result.” He gestures in the direction of his showroom. “Now, George said you had something particular you needed. What can I do for you?”

“Let me start back a week or so ago,” I say. “I called here and I think I talked to you, asking if you'd ever had someone stop in by the name of Parjeter.”

He nods. “I do remember that. You were trying to find someone you thought might have worked here. Did you ever find who you were looking for?”

“Thank you, I did. But I'm afraid that wasn't the end of it. Let me ask you, just to be clear. You ever meet a woman by the name of Dora Lee Parjeter?”

“Like I told you at the time. Never heard of her, never even heard the name.”

I take a deep breath. Either he's lying, or something else is in play. “Then I need to ask you if you've ever had dealings with a man by the name of Wayne Jackson.”