The Gallery (6 page)

“Listen, which way were you headed? Could I walk with you? I doubt if he followed me far. I can outrun almost anyone. I'm on the track and field team.”

“Maybe I should think again about the benefits of pounding the pavement every day.” All LaDonna would do was think about running. She wasn't the least bit athletic. “I'm going towards College Avenue, but I'll go whichever way you need to go until we get to busier streets.”

“That's perfect. I live down off of Twentieth. I had planned to run down Seventeenth, but when I took off, I had no sense of which way I was headed. I never walk by this pond.”

They skirted the edge of the Varsity Pond, and the woman looked back several times. When they reached College, the wind roared again, pushing them along.

“My name's Mary Lou Shoemaker. You a freshman?” Mary Lou felt recovered enough for small talk.

“Actually I'm a high school senior. I got a job on the campus, and hope it will continue next year when I do go to the college. I'm an artist.” It was the first time LaDonna had said that in a long time—well, she used to say, I'm going to be an artist. She realized the difference.

“I'm impressed. I don't have any talents.”

“Except running.” LaDonna joked again.

Mary Lou was able to laugh. “Yeah, you're right. I guess that is a talent. I may even think about the Olympics. The competition is incredibly hard work, but once you win one of those medals, no one can ever take that away from you. You're in the books forever.”

“I guess so. I've never thought about winning anything.”

“You any good? As an artist, I mean?”

“I—I think I am. It takes a lot of self-confidence.”

“Don't let anyone stop you, girl. If that's what you want. Don't let anyone say you can't.”

“Someone tonight said I could.” LaDonna just remembered what he'd said. “He said I had a lot of talent.”

“Then believe him. You're lucky if even one person believes in you. But believe in yourself. No one else will very often. To tell the truth, no one else will care very much. I'm the only one who thinks I should try for the Olympics. ‘That's hard work, girl. And losing will break your heart. Don't even try.' That's what
my
friends say. They know they wouldn't do it.”

Mary Lou stopped in front of a huge old house, probably divided into several apartments. “I live here. Thanks.”

“Nice running into you.” LaDonna shook Mary Lou's hand. “I can say, I know her, when your picture is in the paper or you're on TV accepting that medal.”

“And I'll get so many jobs advertising shoes and running clothes I'll be able to afford one of your paintings. It's a deal, okay?” Mary Lou grinned.

“Okay.”

“You afraid to go the rest of the way to your place?”

“Not now.”

“Then take care.”

A bond had formed between the two women. They might never meet again, but LaDonna felt close to Mary Lou Shoemaker. They shared something in common. A yearning. A dream of being more than most people dared go for.

As she stepped onto the porch of her own house, LaDonna recognized a sense of excitement she hadn't had in a long time. She thought of the painting she'd left in the basement room.
Please, please let it be as good as I think it is. Please, please let the block be gone. I need to believe in myself again
.

Mary Lou was right. It didn't matter how many people did or didn't believe in you. You had to believe in yourself.

She could hardly wait until tomorrow. She'd go up to the campus on her noon hour—cut a class if she needed to—and get her picture. If it wasn't good, she'd do another. And another.

Maybe the wind had done her a favor. It had blown away the little dark cloud she'd let stop over her head.

Roddy would be glad to see her recover her confidence, return to her old self.

Johnny would celebrate with her. She'd helped him live through some of his gloomy gray clouds.

And
he
—he would be glad, she thought. He'd be especially glad.

seven

T
HE NEXT MORNING
LaDonna lay in bed for a few minutes, remembering. What she really wanted to do was to jump up, dress, and run to the art building. See if she really did paint something new. See if she still liked it. There wasn't time now. She'd make herself wait until noon.

She stretched, crawled out of bed, and, wrapped in a towel, headed for the hall bathroom. She wished she had her own bath, but the small house only had one bathroom and shower.

Dressing was easy. She had a sort of uniform she wore every day. Clothes weren't important to her, plus she had little money to spend on extras. Buying paint really did take all she could scrape together. Jeans, tee-shirt or sweatshirt, depending on the season, sometimes an old shirt over the tee. The old shirt was usually paint-spotted. So were the jeans.

When she became a famous artist, would she dress differently? She daydreamed while she made her bed and gathered her books and notebooks. She might wear exotic gowns, or flowing wide pants of silk. She might design her own clothes and have someone sew them for her. But just for openings and parties. In her studio she'd look just like she did now. She'd continue to braid her hair in one braid, since it curled on its own and was out of control if she didn't do something. It escaped all around her face in clean blond wisps. She hated dirty hair and always kept hers sparkling. She hoped that balanced out her limited wardrobe.

In the kitchen, her father sprawled at the table, a cup of coffee in one hand, the newspaper spread before him. He looked as if he'd just come from work.

“You on the night shift now, Daddy?” she asked, just to be polite.

“Yes.” He sipped the coffee. “It's just awful.”

“I thought you liked working at night so you could go to the day games.” Her father's voice sounded awful. Its tone made LaDonna have a little empathy for him.

“No, this.” He pushed the
Bellponte Daily
towards her.

She wished she'd never have looked. But who could avoid the huge picture and the screaming headlines.

CAMPUS COED BRUTALLY MURDERED

And the smaller type underneath.

Body Found In Practice Room

The photo was of one of the practice rooms at Old Main. It was horribly blood-splattered, and the sight sent shivers over LaDonna. Her stomach turned over and threatened to spill out the few sips of coffee she'd taken, the half bagel.

She didn't want to read on, but she did.

When young, promising pianist, John Blair, went to find Katherine Taylor, planning to walk her to her campus room, he found instead her body and grisly evidence of foul play
.

After lengthy questioning, Blair stayed with his story. It seems Katherine had interrupted him some two hours earlier saying she thought she had been followed across campus. She was nervous about walking home alone, so Blair volunteered his company when she was ready to leave
.

Blair, a high school senior, studies piano at the college, and so uses the practice room on a regular basis as did Taylor, a junior music major at Bellponte
.

An all-night search by the police found no other evidence. Bellponte coroner placed the time of death as soon after Taylor had talked to Blair. Blair is not being held at this time, and police have no suspects
.

“Well, I hope not.” LaDonna bit her lip and blinked back tears. “They can't think Johnny killed her, can they, Dad?”

“They can think anything they please.” Her father cupped both hands around his coffee mug and stared into the creamy liquid. “They can think I did it.”

“Were you there? Is that your building?” LaDonna hadn't even considered that her father was a suspect, too. She didn't much like him, or invite his company, but he wasn't a murderer. Was he? The most curious sense of not knowing her father at all took hold of her.

Without meaning to, wanting to, she drew back into herself. Stared at her father with new eyes. He was rumpled, bleary eyed, needed a shave. He was also overweight. She certainly couldn't imagine him running after someone on campus, or even hurrying after them. He moved at a turtle's pace in everything he did.

“Did they question you? Did you see anything?” LaDonna just kept tossing out her own questions.

“The story is all in there.” Her father pushed the newspaper towards LaDonna. She read on to find her father's name.

Janitor Sam Martindale was also questioned. According to his story, he arrived at Old Main after the time of Taylor's death, but cleaned only the main floor. He saw nothing, heard nothing. Since the practice rooms are sound proof, the possibility of anyone hearing Taylor's screams for help is slim
.

LaDonna's mind flew to Mary Lou Shoemaker running across the campus. Had Mary Lou gotten up to see this headline? Realized this murderer may have been the same person who followed her? She should call the police. Maybe LaDonna should call them, too.

She'd wait. She jumped up. “I'm going to school, Dad. See you later.”

Where she was going was to Johnny's house. She flew out the door to find it raining. Stepping back inside, she grabbed a hooded jacket, slipped it on, then half walked, half ran to the Blairs' house, only a block from hers.

“Is Johnny here?” she asked the sleepy woman who opened the door.

“Hi, LaDonna. He's still at breakfast. Aren't you early?”

“Yes. But I was worried about him.” LaDonna brushed past Mrs. Blair and ran to the kitchen.

Johnny was slumped over the newspaper. He glanced up at LaDonna, but said nothing. His hair stuck up all whichaway. His eyes were red. A stubble of golden fuzz fringed his chin. LaDonna was sure he hadn't slept.

“Johnny, I'm so sorry.” She was sorry she'd felt the least bit jealous of Katherine and Johnny. She knew it was silly, but now it seemed even worse. “You've been up all night, haven't you?” She stood beside him, touched his shoulder.

He nodded. “They made me tell my story over and over. Like I was a suspect. Like I could kill—kill—her.” Johnny acted as if he couldn't call Katherine's name. Like if he didn't, this wouldn't be her, dead.

“I know, Johnny, I know. They questioned my father, too. They're desperate to find the killer. They don't really believe you killed her. They couldn't.”

“I think they could.” Johnny's clothes were all wrinkled as if he'd slept in them. Had he even gone to bed?

“Don't go to school, Johnny. You need some sleep. I'll stop at the office and tell them.”

“Think you'll have to?” Now Johnny's voice sounded bitter. “Why did they have to print this photo? It was awful, LaDonna, just awful. I went there, expecting—expecting to—”

“I know, Johnny, I know. You don't have to explain it to me. It's a terrible thing to have to see.” She hugged him, cradling his head against her waist, feeling his crisp curly hair, the stubble of beard across his face.

“You want some company? I could cut classes, too.” She moved away from him, sat in one of the hard kitchen chairs.

Taking both of his hands in hers, she squeezed the long, strong fingers, staring at the close-cut nails, kept short for the piano. The tip of each finger was slightly calloused from seeking out the keys, from playing his music over and over until it was perfect. She had watched him play. He retreated into himself, caressed the piano, coaxing the melody from a black and white keyboard. If Johnny Blair even had a wife, she would come second to his music. His love affair would always be with his own compositions and composers long dead.

Johnny shook his head. “No. Thanks, though, LaDonna.”

She sat there a few minutes more. Shook her head no when Mrs. Blair offered her coffee.

Reluctantly she left. She walked slowly to Bellponte High, detouring around twisted limbs on the sidewalk. Drifts of leaves, branches, the aftermath of the night's wind storm.

She found herself a celebrity because Johnny wasn't there. Everyone knew they were friends. Everyone asked her about Johnny. She didn't bother to answer, just whirled and walked away. Inside her chest, a wild storm of her own built. People never spoke to her. Now they wanted gossip.

By ten o'clock, she'd had enough. Slamming her books into her locker, she marched out of the building. Let a teacher stop her. Let someone ask where she was going. She was eager to unleash her anger on whoever dared.

She reached the art building with no interference. Did she expect the campus to be swarming with uniformed searchers? What would they be looking for? They'd found her body. Any other evidence would have blown all the way to Canada last night.

There was no one in the art office to stop her. She hurried to the basement door, paused before it. Did she really want to hide out here? She didn't know where else to go. She certainly wasn't going home.

Stepping slowly onto each step, she listened to the groans and creaks, heard the old building whispering a welcome.

The gallery, as she had started calling it once she'd hung paintings, held a dim, smoky light at mid-morning. The smell of oil paint greeted her nostrils. She inhaled it gratefully. It was like a drug, one that calmed. Like Johnny's music, her art was a place to retreat, to hide if you wanted to say that, to forget that a world where people could kill another human being existed.

She sat. Stared at the painting she had finished last night. The composition, the work was far superior to anything she had ever painted before. Had she really painted it herself? Maybe he had painted it. The style imitated his. She saw that at once. The eyes were dark as if smudged in with a thumbprint of kohl. The long, strong fingers of the child stretched, exaggerated because he was reaching. Reaching for what? The empty sky? The bare, lonely horizon? One had to imagine what he yearned for, but the yearning was on his face. Tears came into her eyes looking at the child. This was the first time she had captured such emotion in a painting. That made her question even more whether or not she'd achieved this level of work.