Death of an Artist (2 page)

“If you're not ready, I'll wait,” she said, taking off a rain hat and shaking it inside the door.

“Just a couple of minutes,” Dave said, wiping a bench top with an oiled cloth that lifted fine sawdust and held it. “Have a look at what your big guy left here.” He waved toward his desk, where he had put the box, and continued on to the sink to rinse his cloth and wash his hands.

“Oh, my,” Marnie said, examining the box. “Did he make this? It's beautiful.”

“Guess he did. Least he gave that impression.” Dave joined her at the desk. “The guy wants a job. Guess I'll take him on.”

Marnie looked at Dave in surprise. “Just off the street like that? Who is he? Where'd he come from?”

“Name's Anthony Mauricio, used to be a New York detective, homicide, retired with a disability. I had Will get the lowdown on him. His captain gave him a high recommendation.”

“Disability? What's wrong with him?” She was thinking of the limp.

“Shot up. A couple of operations, and that's all I know about that. He doesn't seem to be a talker, so that's all right.”

She nodded. Dave couldn't abide empty chatter, and he had so little small talk it was almost as if he were retarded, or even mute at times. She would ask Will for more information. Will loved to talk so much it was hard to get him to shut up most of the time. And he wouldn't have been satisfied with such bare bones.

*   *   *

T
HAT
LATE
AFTERNOON
, and on into night until it got dark, Tony stood at the window of a motel several blocks from Dave's shop and watched the storm. He had driven up the coast to Lincoln City and had spent a long time in Newport, where he had eaten in a restaurant overlooking the bay. Trying to see what it was that the artist Stef had seen out there had proved futile. The water was choppy, the sky gray, and blowing rain was pelting down slantwise. And now he was back in Silver Bay. He had to smile at the name of the town. There was no silver, and there was no bay, just a scooped-out bit of shore with sand on it. Even he, never having lived on a seacoast in his life, could see the marks made by high tides, the long, ragged-looking strands of seaweed halfway up the beach. He suspected that a storm like the one that had arrived that day would claim even more of the beach.

Then, lying on the bed, he thought about the zigzag trail he had cut across the country after leaving New York City. Up to see his sister in Albany, down to Phoenix, Arizona, to visit his mother, who had moved there from upstate New York following the death of Tony's father. On to Las Vegas, on again, driving a few hours every day from place to place with no destination in mind, just driving with the thought that he would know it when he saw it. He had arrived in Portland, Oregon, with that vague thought still in his head and a bit of regret that he had not yet found it, a place where he wanted to stay and stop the insane driving.

In Portland, he had decided to head north, see what Seattle had to offer, and if it wasn't there, head south. Maybe near San Francisco, along there somewhere. Then, walking in downtown Portland, window-shopping, he had thought derisively, he had stopped at the showroom window of Willoughby's Furniture store, where he had seen Dave McAdams's furniture on display, two chairs with
SOLD
notices on them.

And now here he was in Silver Bay, Oregon, and he intended to stay here, and he intended to work in Dave's meticulous shop. Tony's father had been a fine craftsman, a cabinetmaker, and he had taught Tony how to use the tools, how to make things that were beautiful and could be used.

That day in Portland, gazing at the two chairs in the window of the furniture store had brought the first moment of clarity that he had experienced in a long time, he reflected, lying on a motel bed on the Oregon coast in a place he had never heard of less than a week before. He had gone to school, gone to law school, joined the police force, had used up most of his life unaware that what he really wanted to do, what he was meant to do, was to work with wood, to make things, to work with his hands, and not only during a stolen hour or two now and then, with the guilt that had always followed.

A moment of clarity, he repeated to himself. An epiphany of sorts. He smiled, listening to the wind, the sound of crashing waves distant and constant, and he knew this was it. He had found the place.

 

2

O
N
F
RIDAY
MORNING
Tony explored his new place. It didn't take long. Coming in from the south the coast road descended a mountain in a precipitous plunge that was one long curve, straightened out to cross a bridge over Silver Creek, and continued on through town as Main Street. Fronting the creek, with an ocean view, was the Sand Dollar Inn and Restaurant, and a street that led to three other motels overlooking the ocean. Beach access was at the edge of the inn's parking area, steps fashioned from sea-delivered logs. The town was high above the water; it was a long staircase. On Main Street was a grocery store with not many choices available, but necessities for those who ran out of supplies, with regular shopping probably done up the coast in Newport. A general-merchandise store next to the market sold kitchenware, clothing, some camping supplies—again not many selections. Two gas stations, a small library that shared a building with the police department. Tony gave it a mocking salute as he passed by. Marnie's gift shop was across the street from the market, next to the Silver Dollar Café, and in the next block was Tom's Fine Foods and a real estate office. He suspected that their specialty was rentals. A city hall and historical museum shared a building on Second Street, and a seafood store was across the street. An elementary school and playground were on Third Street. A lot of houses had
BED-AND-BREAKFAST
signs, or
APARTMENT FOR RENT
signs. Many houses looked empty—weekend retreats or summer homes. A pottery shop was at the north edge of town, where on one side of the highway a neat sign indicated lodging, a motel access road. On the other side was another road, Ridge Road, which wound up the side of the mountain that was a backdrop to the town. There was little else to see. No matter, he thought, driving up Ridge Road, Newport was a dozen miles north, and Portland two hours away. Cities enough.

Ridge Road was fairly steep, and like all mountain roads, curvy. No doubt this was prime real estate with a magnificent ocean view from every house. He drove until he came to the end of the road, where there was space to turn around. A gate was across a narrower road posted
PRIVATE PROPERTY
leading up the mountain. After making his turn, he stopped to look out over the town with the flashing, sparkling creek one boundary, the ocean another, and deep forest behind and ahead. The town was not destined to grow. From where he was, he could see the white foam and sprays from ocean waves breaking over black formations offshore, stacks and columns that told a story of a mountain losing a battle with the sea, a battle that had lasted eons and was still ongoing. He drew in a long breath and could feel something coiled tight within him loosen a little.

It was time to pay a call on Dave McAdams, he decided, and he followed Ridge Road back down to Fourth and Dave's shop.

That morning Dave was working on the third of five spindles he had turned on the lathe in short order. Smoothing them down and finishing them was slow work, which he didn't mind at all. Just part of what he did. He put the spindle down this time when Tony entered the shop.

“How much you asking for?” Dave asked without preamble.

“Whatever you think I'm worth,” Tony said. “Try me out a week or two, then decide.”

Dave's expression was dubious, even suspicious. Not an answer he had been expecting, he realized, regathering his thoughts. “You'd have to do things my way, do what I want done,” he said almost truculently.

“Sure. One request. I'd like to work in here after hours, weekends, on my own time.”

Dave's gaze turned to the box on his desk, back to Tony. “Means I'd have to give you a key,” he said slowly.

“I could post a security bond,” Tony said. “And you can keep the box as hostage. I won't leave home without it.”

Dave didn't miss the amusement that flickered momentarily in Tony's dark eyes. He'd take the damned box home and keep it there for a time, he decided. He didn't believe the fellow would leave without it any more than he would if it were his.

“You can't use my wood,” Dave said, “and electricity's expensive.”

“I'll keep an hour log and you can take my share out of my pay. I picked up a few pieces of wood in Portland after I talked to Willoughby.”

It wasn't going to work, Dave thought. This guy was too cocksure of himself, too … maybe too superior in a funny way, as if he had figured Dave out and knew how to game him. Again he glanced at the box, then he shrugged. “Okay. We'll give it a try.”

For the next hour they talked about the work. Dave showed Tony his own supply of wood in the storage shed behind the shop, and when Tony left, Dave knew little more about his new employee than he had known when he'd first walked in. Tony knew wood, and he knew the tools and how to use them, and those were the big ones. On the other hand, he had been so sure he would get the job, he had come prepared with some wood of his own. It was infuriating, yet it was also reassuring. Dave put a lot of stock in self-confidence. Instantly the contradictory thought followed: too self-confident? Tony wasn't much of a talker, and that was a big plus that tended to outweigh most of the lingering doubts Dave had about hiring anyone.

*   *   *

M
ARNIE
HAD
TIMED
her visit to Chief Williard Comley to the minute. First a stop at the library to check out two books to read to her great-grandson that weekend, and two for him to read to her. Josh, in kindergarten, had learned to read that year. She chatted a few minutes with Beverly, the librarian, who always asked about Josh's mother, Van, and never asked a question about Stef. Few people in town did.

“They'll be down for the weekend,” Marnie told her. “Van will bring an armload of books, of course, and spend most of her time studying. This last year has been a hard one.”

“And then off to an internship,” Beverly said in awe.

Van was a medical student in her final year, a fact that awed Marnie as much as it did most folks in town. Their own doctor. She was determined to return home to practice, at least to Newport, on getting her license. Marnie was enormously proud of her granddaughter.

After leaving the library with her books, she stopped by the chief's office next door. It was twelve-thirty, and she had a perfect excuse to leave a little before one in order to relieve Molly at the shop. She knew Will's habits probably better than he did. At one he would stroll home, have lunch with his wife, take a nap, and at three, uniformed in mufti, strut around town a little. Weekenders were coming and he would be on the job.

“Marnie! Good to see you,” Will said jovially. He was always happy to have anyone drop in. “Been tidying up a little, getting ready for the weekend. Let me give you a cup of coffee.”

His coffee was terrible, but she smiled and accepted it, murmuring her thanks. A good caricature of Will, done by Stef, depicted a balloon with stubby legs and a smiley face, Huckleberry hair that always fell over his forehead, from a cowlick that wouldn't be tamed, and a cup of coffee in his hand. Marnie knew he had tidied up the single holding cell, probably hoping to use it over the weekend, just to have someone to talk to.

His office held a desk with a few papers and a computer, a filing cabinet, three chairs, and a coatrack. He seated himself behind his desk and she sat opposite it, nursing the mug of coffee.

“Dave tells me he's hiring a man to help out in the shop,” she said, then sipped a little coffee. “I never thought the day would come when he would do that, he's so picky.”

“Well, he found himself a good one,” Will said, leaning forward. “Let me tell you.”

He told her in great detail, and even discounting some of it as his own embellishments, it was impressive, she thought as she listened. SUNY Buffalo, three years at Columbia Law School, dropped it, and joined the police force, where he had made lieutenant. “His captain said he was top-notch, not a mark against him in twenty years.

“He's fifty,” Will said. “Divorced about five years ago. That's always sad. And two years ago he got it in a shooting. Seems a kid went crazy, waving a gun around, and Mauricio was trying to talk him down when shooting started. Mauricio got it in the leg and hip. The kid was riddled, seventeen shots, and the family is suing the department. Middle-class family, good neighborhood, only the dad made a practice of beating up on his wife and kid on the weekend, and that tore it. Mauricio was in the clear. His weapon never left his holster.”

There was more, but that was the gist of it, Marnie decided at ten minutes before one. Will was saying, “His captain said they tried to get him to stay on the force, with a desk job, one of the best detectives they had, they didn't want to lose him. He turned it down. If he came here looking to take my job, I'd be looking into retirement.”

Marnie glanced at her watch and set the coffee mug down on his desk. It was still nearly full. “Oh my. I have to get to the shop. Molly will think I abandoned her. You and Susan come by sometime, Will. Thanks for the coffee.”

He glanced at a wall clock and nodded. “Me, too. Lunchtime. Drop in anytime, Marnie. Always good to see you, chat a little.”

He was still talking when she opened the door, waved to him, and left.
Well,
she thought as she headed downtown to the shop.
Well, well.
An interesting man had come to join their small community.

*   *   *

M
ARNIE
'
S
HOUSE
HAD
been built by a man named Huddleston and was one of the first houses in Silver Bay. When the Huddlestons outgrew the original house, not wanting to give up such a choice location, they had built what he called an addition. In reality he had built a second house on the property, keeping a small footprint by going up two stories, conforming to the drop in the land, with most of the new structure behind the garage, in order not to obstruct the stunning view from the original building. There was an overlap, just enough space for a passage from the front house to the rear. From Marnie's back door, a few steps down led to the passageway and the entrance of the upper floor of the addition. They called them the front house, where Marnie lived, and the rear house, where Stef lived with her current husband. The rear house had a frequently changing population.