Spider Season (20 page)

“Not feeling well?”

“Not for some time, I’m afraid.”

She showed me to a sofa and eased herself down from the walker into an upright recliner, waving me off when I offered assistance. On the table next to her were several framed photos of the same two women, apparently taken over several decades. One of the women I recognized as Miss Faith, brunette in her younger years and stunningly beautiful. The other was a heftier woman with dark blond, closely cropped hair, wearing a pants suit, who appeared to be a few years older. In each photo, their heads were touching or they were facing each other, each looking fondly into the other’s eyes. I recalled from her Wikipedia entry that Victoria Faith had never married.

Also on the small table was a copy of
Deep Background.
The moment I saw it I knew I’d been busted. Victoria’s rheumy gray eyes were watching me carefully.

“I put in an order for your book after we spoke on the phone the other day,” she said. “It just arrived this morning. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to sign it for me before you leave.”

“Would that be now?”

She smiled benignly. “If I didn’t want you here, Mr. Justice, I would have called to cancel. I didn’t recognize your name when we first spoke, but it came to me later. I try to keep up with the news, and you’ve been getting your share of attention lately. That video, you know, the one where you and that young man are fighting in the street. To be honest, I found it rather disturbing. I turned it off, but not before your name and book were mentioned.”

“It’s not something I’m proud of, that altercation.”

“You didn’t do it as a publicity stunt?”

“No.”

She clucked critically. “I don’t know why you men find violence so appealing. I’ve often said that if women could just run the world for a few years, things would settle down and be so much better. But I don’t suppose that’s likely to happen, is it?”

“I apologize for lying about having a magazine assignment.”

“Why did you, Mr. Justice?”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t see me if I was honest about why I wanted to speak with you.”

“And what would that reason be?”

“I believe you have a nephew named Jason Holt. Formerly known as Barclay Simpkins.”

She tensed noticeably.

“Yes, Jason is my nephew.”

“He’s been causing me some problems. I’d like to know more about him. Are you and Jason close?”

“Not really.”

“When did you see him last?”

“What kind of problems, Mr. Justice?”

I described the harassment I’d been experiencing. I also mentioned my three conversations with Holt—one at the bookstore, two at his house—and how troubled he seemed.

“I’m sorry he’s been such a nuisance,” she said. “I’m not sure I can be of any help in that regard. I haven’t seen him in years. We never got on too well.”

“But in a letter to me, written years ago, he said that—”

“I’m afraid my nephew lives in a world of his own fantasies, so deeply that he believes them.”

“You knew him when he was a child?”

“Somewhat. My sister and I didn’t see as much of each other after she married. Neither she nor her husband approved of me.” She glanced at the photos on the table next to her. “I’m an unconventional woman, Mr. Justice. I never married. I had a female companion until a few years ago, when she passed on. Lenore.”

“Were you together long?”

“Nearly seventy years. We met in the late thirties, just before the war. I was under studio contract then and still had some promise as a film actress. We tried to be discreet, but there’s only so much one can do to keep one’s private life secret, and you pay a terrible price for it. The studio demanded that I marry one of their homosexual male stars, so that we’d both have a cover. Lenore was uncomfortable with all the hiding and lying as it was. She was much braver than I. She also had her own business, so it was safer for her. At any rate, I refused to go along with the studio’s arrangement. I lost my contract, word got around, and my career suffered considerably.”

“That must have been painful for you.”

“I would have liked to have had a more fulfilling career, but not at the expense of being honest, and true to the woman I loved. Had I placed my career first, I doubt that Lenore and I would have had so many wonderful years together.”

“You said that your sister and brother-in-law didn’t approve.”

“They were both very much about so-called propriety and status. They liked to live and act as if they were cultured and successful. In truth, they were a rather ordinary couple, without much imagination or accomplishment. They couldn’t stand being ordinary, so they kept up the constant pretense that they were better than everyone else. Barclay, whom you know as Jason, grew up in that atmosphere.”

“They’re still alive?”

“They died twenty-odd years ago, a few months apart. Lived their whole lives in a suburb outside Boston. I learned of their passing through a distant relative. Jason only mentioned them once, quite disrespectfully. He was upset because they died without leaving him money or property. What little they had went for burial expenses and debts.”

“What kind of boy was he?”

“An only child. Precocious, needy. Both his parents were rather cold people, emotionally distant. He was desperate for attention, almost pathologically so. To be honest, I felt sorry for him.” She paused, and her face darkened. “At least until he arrived here in Los Angeles as a young man, and I got to know him better.”

“When was that exactly?”

“Nineteen eighty-five. I remember because it was in December, just before Christmas. It seemed an odd time to unexpectedly turn up.”

“Not too long after I arrived,” I said, more to myself than to Miss Faith. “He came to see you?”

“He had this mistaken notion, probably from his mother, that I was a successful actress with lots of money and Hollywood connections. I was happy to see him, of course. He was family, after all.”

“Apparently, your feelings didn’t last.”

“It quickly became clear that Barclay was not a very likable young man, or very trustworthy. He could be charming when he needed to be, but it was superficial, and he was very calculating. He had grand notions about what he wanted to do out here. You know, be in the movies as an actor. Write screenplays, produce, become famous, get rich. Hollywood is a magnet for people like that. I suspect that a lot of young people come here looking for the attention and approval they never got from their parents. Sometimes it works out, but more often not.”

“You weren’t able to help him?”

“I gave him the names of a few friends, but as soon as he found out there was real work involved, he’d lose interest. He wanted everything handed to him on a silver platter. He’d legally changed his name to Jason Holt by then. He had this notion that with his looks and his new name he was virtually assured of an acting career. He used to send me new photos of himself that he had taken for his portfolio, the kind of thing one sends to agents and casting directors. No note of any kind, mind you, no inquiry as to how I was doing. Just a glossy eight-by-ten of himself, preening for the camera. I’ve still got them, packed away somewhere.”

“Not an easy trade,” I said, “acting for the movies.”

“The truth was that Jason wasn’t all that good-looking. Just young and fair, with noticeable flaws the camera never would have forgiven, at least not if he was going to be the leading man he wanted to be. If he’d been willing to learn his craft and take character roles, I suppose he might have had a chance.” She turned her head to glance briefly out toward the distant rose garden. “Like Roddy did, for example. He understood his limitations, worked hard at his craft, and had a nice career. I tried to instill some of that same sense into Jason, a work ethic if you will, but he wouldn’t hear any of it.”

“You gave up on him at some point?”

“More than that, I’m afraid. I felt compelled to call a number of friends to warn them about him, about his deeper motives. He seemed intent on finding a wealthy older man who would take care of him. He wanted to be kept, and kept well.”

“He apparently found that with Silvio Galiano,” I said.

At the mention of Galiano’s name, darkness passed across her face. She folded her hands tightly in her lap.

“Yes, I suppose Jason got what he wanted after all.”

“I’m not sure there’s much of it left,” I said. “I’ve been up to the house, and it’s in a pretty sorry state.”

“A shame. It was once quite grand.”

“Were you there often?”

“Lenore and I attended dinner parties there before Jason and Silvio took up together. After Silvio died, I was invited for the memorial service, which Jason held at the house with much fanfare. That was the last time I saw or heard from him.”

She paused uncomfortably. “Well, there was that one other time. About a year ago, Jason got in touch with me. He needed money. When I told him I wasn’t in a position to help him, he threw a terrible fit. He said some absolutely vile things, and I told him I wanted no more contact with him.”

“From what I understand, Jason and Galiano were together for quite a few years. There must have been something there, for it to last that long.”

“I suppose so.”

She dropped her eyes and began to wring her gnarled hands.

“What is it, Miss Faith? You seem distressed.”

She sighed deeply, painfully. “It was I who introduced Jason to Silvio. I thought Silvio might help Jason find some honest work.” She shook her head slowly, several times. “I still feel guilty that I brought them together.”

She looked up and asked carefully, “You mentioned that you’ve been up to the house?”

“Yes.”

“Is that portrait by Charles Wu still hanging above the mantelpiece? The one he painted of Jason?”

I told her it was.

She dropped her eyes again. “I see.”

“What about the portrait, Miss Faith?”

She hesitated a long moment, looking more uneasy than ever, and tighter than the proverbial clam.

“Miss Faith?”

She met my eyes fleetingly and said quickly, “I’m afraid I’m not feeling well, Mr. Justice. Perhaps we can chat again another day, when I’m more up to it.” She paused, then added, “We might look through those photos of Jason I mentioned. You might find that interesting. Forgive me if I don’t get up.”

I stood. “You wouldn’t mind if I came back then?”

“I enjoy having visitors. It’s why I had you out today, even after I suspected you were coming under false pretenses. That, and curiosity, I suppose. You are a rather interesting man.” She reached over and tapped my book. “I intend to read your story. I’m quite looking forward to it. You can sign it the next time you come, if you’d be so kind.”

“I’d be honored.”

I started for the door, but she called after me. When I turned, her eyes were keen with concern.

“You won’t tell Jason you came to see me, will you?”

“Of course not.”

She smiled uneasily but looked relieved.

“He can be rather frightening,” she said, “when he feels crossed.”

TWENTY-ONE

My visit with Victoria Faith prompted me to zero in on Charles Wu, the artist who had painted Holt’s portrait.

Google led me to Wu’s Web site, which was attractive and tasteful, if unexciting. The home page offered the features one would expect: a prominent reproduction of one of his paintings, head shot, biography, link to his agent for purchases, and three links to his pieces offered for sale, categorized by type—watercolor botanicals, portraits in oil, and abstracts in acrylic.

I’ve never claimed to know much about art, but the abstract Wu had chosen for his home page left me cold. Presumably one of his emblematic pieces, it was stark in the extreme: a large brown triangle set dead center in a white square canvas. If that was brilliant art—sold for high prices, no less—I just didn’t get it. To my uncultured eye it was closer to geometry, about as unexpressive and unrevealing an image as an artist could create. Or maybe that was the point.

The head shot showed a fair-skinned, clean-shaven man, stiffly posed, with dark hair that was conservatively cut and combed, mild brown eyes, and bland, square-jawed looks, an image that revealed about as much as the painting did.

The bio went as follows:

Charles Wu was born in Los Angeles in 1962 to parents who had emigrated from Taiwan four years earlier. Raised in a traditional Chinese-American family, he showed an early talent for drawing. At fifteen he was accepted at the Otis College of Art and Design in Los Angeles, and he later studied at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris.

By the mideighties, Mr. Wu was gaining a reputation for his exquisite watercolor pastels, particularly of flora, inspired by the array of blossoms he had observed as a child in his father’s Monterey Park flower shop.

As his prominence grew, he expanded his vocabulary of painting to portraiture, focusing at first on family, friends, and noted collectors who had supported his earlier work. While many portraitists were working from photographs of their subjects, Mr. Wu became known as an exacting artist who demanded long sittings over many days, without exception, a standard he maintains to this day.

Mr. Wu continued to evolve as an artist and today concentrates on abstract forms, inspired by shadows cast by objects and the spaces between architectural elements, which he considers his most important work.

Mr. Wu’s first retrospective was in 2002 at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. In 2004, his work was seen in some of the finest art museums in the U.S. in a traveling exhibit organized by the Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles. His work in all three mediums—watercolor, oil, and acrylic—can be found in many of the finest collections in the world, both public and private.

Mr. Wu works from his studio in Santa Monica Canyon near the ocean, where he lives with his wife, Angela, a prominent art patron and philanthropist, and their two children.

Wu’s home page also featured a link for a schedule of his upcoming events. I clicked on it to find a major gallery opening in Los Angeles that Friday evening, by invitation only, timed to the publication of a new book,
The Complete Charles Wu Portraits: 1987
–
2007.