“Skinheads?” Dante looked shocked. “You have skinheads in Portland?”
“We did twenty years ago. I haven’t heard anything about them for a long, long time though.” Twenty years before, an Ethiopian immigrant had been beaten to death in Portland by baseball-bat wielding skinheads. They had been part of a loose-knit group urged to violence by a toupee-wearing former appliance salesman who had turned to selling hate. For months, the skinheads had stalked the city by night, beating up immigrants or people of color, attacking even those who innocently questioned their shaven heads and motorcycle boots. But the city had rallied against them, and over time the group had splintered and fallen apart. “Since nine-eleven, there’s been more bias crimes, not just Oregon. Although it doesn’t help that we’ve got one of the highest unemployment rates in the country, and the highest hunger rate. Or that there aren’t that many minorities here anyway. In bad times, people tend to turn on outsiders.”
“Then how are they going to feel about a guy from New Yawk?” Dante deliberately exaggerated his accent.
“You?” Claire said. “You, of course, they’re going to love.”
###
Even though it was only three in the afternoon, the house was filled with the mouth-watering smells of tomatoes and garlic. Charlie was making a long-simmering pasta sauce that had everything from pork ribs to bite-sized pieces of steak to chunks of pepperoni imported from Italy. Claire didn’t know if Charlie had ever kept a kosher kitchen, but for her roommate it seemed being a Jew was more a matter of race than religion.
Charlie and Claire had just decided on the perfect outfit – a rose-colored wool tunic top and pants that brought out the color in Charlie’s face – when the phone rang. They both hurried to answer it. The Caller ID display showed the number for Dante’s cell phone, so Claire was the one who answered.
Dante explained that some people at the museum have invited him out to dinner. “And they want you there as well. A place called Mercury in Northwest Portland. At eight. I told them I’d call and check with you, but that’s okay, isn’t it?”
Even Claire, with her low-key lifestyle, had heard of Mercury. The restaurant had been open for only a couple of months, but was already rumored to be Portland’s hottest restaurant. Claire had gathered Mercury was as much about scene as cuisine. Mercury sounded like the place to go to prove you could eat and dress and drink the way you imagined the rich and famous did in New York or Los Angeles.
“Sure,” Claire said. “This must be a good sign. Taking you out to dinner.”
“I think it went well. But they might be taking every candidate to dinner. They made a point of how difficult it is to get dinner reservations at Mercury, and it sounded like they booked them weeks ago.”
“From what I hear, if they had decided you weren’t worth feeding, they could have scalped the reservations on the sidewalk outside the restaurant and made a nice profit.” Claire hesitated. “So do you think you might get this job?”
“It’s hard to say. I’ll tell you more about it when I get back. You’ll have to help me decide what to wear. I brought interview suits and jeans, but not much in between.”
“That’s my job for the day, it seems,” Claire said, thinking of Charlie. “You’ll have to help me, too. I don’t know too much about Mercury, but I do know it’s not the kind of place I can wear my Nikes, even the cool ones with no laces.” Something else occurred to her. “I guess I hadn’t thought about that,” she said slowly.
“Hadn’t thought about what?”
“If you get this job, then I’ll probably be expected to go out to dinner a lot. Or dinner parties. You know, because I’m your girlfriend or spouse-equivalent.” She used the term lightly, but if Dante got the job, it seemed possible they might actually marry. Claire imagined herself trying to make small talk with a West Hills matron with a helmet of dyed blond hair. “Not to mention cocktail parties and show openings.” In her mind’s eye, she saw white-coated men holding out trays filled with foods she couldn’t name and wasn’t even sure she wanted to eat. Who was she kidding? She had grown up on wiener wraps, not foie gras. “I never know what to do with olive pits,” she said, almost to herself.
If Dante was impatient to get back to their would-be hosts, he didn’t show it. “You put them on the edge of your plate. The rule is, you use the same method to take something out of your mouth that got it there in the first place. Fingers or fork, depending. Then the olive pit or the fish bone goes on the side of your plate. And no spitting in your napkin unless it’s something really unappetizing.”
An even more panic-inducing thought gripped Claire. “If you get this job, will I have to entertain?” She couldn’t imagine the art crowd, even the Portland art crowd, which was presumably less formal than New York’s, would get too excited at the prospect of Chex Mix, Jean’s party stand by.
“Of course. While wearing a tiara and elbow-length gloves.” She could hear Dante’s smile through the telephone. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. How about when I come home I give you a backrub, get some of the kinks out?”
Claire tried to rein in her anxieties. Dante was right. No sense worrying about more than the here and now. “If I know you, you’ll try to get some of the kinks in.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying. Oh, and Claire?”
“Yes?”
“There is one thing I forgot to mention. Our hosts tonight are Allen Lisac and his wife.”
#
How did you dress for dinner with a man you had last seen while you were wearing a disguise? A man who could possibly be a killer? And a man who was treating you to a meal at the most-talked about restaurant in town?
Claire finally picked out a scoop-necked black dress that set off her red hair and pale skin, in the hopes that her hair and the tops of her breasts might draw attention away from her face. It was certainly a far cry from the frumpy and fat figure she had last presented them with. Dante looked gorgeous and slightly dangerous in a charcoal suit and eggplant-colored shirt worn without a tie. He had exchanged the small gold hoop he usually wore in his left ear for an even larger one.
At twenty to seven they stopped in the kitchen to show themselves off to Charlie before Tom showed up. All set to preen, they found Charlie distracted. She held out a wooden spoon toward Dante. “Do you think this salad dressing is tasting too much of vinegar?” Behind her, the oven timer buzzed. Charlie started and put a hand over her heart. It was Claire who slipped on the oven mitts and pulled the homemade loaf of French bread from the oven. The yeasty scent made her mouth water. Seeing how distracted Charlie was, Claire and Dante settled for quick good-byes. When Claire kissed Charlie’s cheek, it was as warm as if the older woman were running a fever.
Claire opened the front door, then stepped back in surprise. A white-haired man stood on the porch, juggling a bottle of wine, a bouquet of red tulips wrapped in green florist’s paper, and a round, covered silver pan.
“Oh! You must be Tom!” So much for worrying he was a fat old guy driving a motorized scooter. He was a slightly stooped six feet tall and his rolled-up shirtsleeves exposed wiry, corded arms. His beak of a nose made him look as fierce as an eagle. A full head of silver hair had receded just a bit at the temples. Only his face truly showed the years. It was tanned and creased as a baseball mitt.
His face crinkled into a smile. “And you must be Claire. Charlie told me about you. I’m Tom. Tom Bonfilgio.” He tried to shift things to free up his right hand, nearly dropping the bouquet in the process. “I know I’m early, but at my age you don’t like to wait too long.”
“Come in, come in. And here, let me take something from you,” Claire relieved him of the covered pan. It was surprisingly heavy. If she hadn’t stiffened her wrist it would have dropped from her grasp. She set it on the end table.
“Dante Bonner,” Dante said, offering his hand.
“Dante, eh? That’s a good name.” He tipped Dante an insider’s wink, as he set down the bouquet and the wine next to the tart
pan.
“My mother’s name was Pieruccini.”
Claire wished for the dozenth time that she were more than just a mongrel with no tradition, no heritage, no native dress and no special holidays. What it would be like to belong to a tribe?
Charlie hurried into the living room. She had taken off her apron, and pushed down the sleeves of her sweater, but her hair still sprang up in untamed tendrils around her flushed face. She stopped when she was about ten feet away and her hand fluttered up to her chest again. “Tom.” Her voice was quiet, as if pitched only for his ears. “I can’t believe how long it’s been.”
“Too long,” he said simply and held out his arms “Too long.” Charlie walked straight into them, tucked her head under his chin, and gave him a hug. It was suddenly clear there were two people too many in the room.
“Well, we better get going if we want to make that dinner reservation,” Claire said loudly, but only Dante was listening. Tom and Charlie were still in each other’s arms when Claire softly closed the front door.
Chapter 28
He gave the kid $50, $30 more than it cost to get the lawn mowed.
“I don’t have any change.” The kid looked up at him with eyes the same color as the grass behind him.
“That’s okay. Maybe I can think of some other stuff that needs doing so you can earn it.”
“Maybe.”
They exchanged a look, and the look was a promise.
He thought so, anyway. He hoped so. After he watched the kid push the mower down the street until turning the corner, he went back into the house and the locked drawer on the bottom of his desk, the drawer filled with magazines he had bought off the Internet.
Chapter 29
WZNT ME
Claire pressed the bottom of her beer glass on the wooden table, leaving behind a ring of condensation. She added another one to it, then a faint third, but there wasn’t enough condensation to allow her to form the five rings of the Olympic symbol. Before they were due at Mercury, she and Dante were time by splitting a pitcher of India Pale Ale at the Hillsdale Pub. Like all the other pubs owned by Portland’s McMennamin brothers, the Hillsdale Pub featured beer brewed on site, signs from other countries and/or times, and funky paintings that looked like the artist had eaten a lot of acid before picking up his paint brush. They were filled with smiling suns, dancing hammers, leaping rabbits and lots of psychedelic colors.
“Allen Lisac’s collection is truly fabulous. It’s going to be the Oregon Art Museum’s crown jewel, that’s for sure. The Met would be happy to have it,” Dante was saying. “Nineteen paintings and seven drawings. The paintings aren’t that distinguished, but the drawings are exceptional. They told me he paid nearly seven million for the lot, and I’m thinking he got a bargain. There is a black chalk study of an infant’s head that’s just enchanting. And a beautiful pen and ink study of a seated female figure. And a sketch that I think may have been for an altar piece that’s now in Frankfurt. I wish I’d had more time to really look at them. What the director and Allen Lisac really wanted to talk about wasn’t the art itself, but how to market it.”
Claire flinched inwardly at every mention of Allen’s Lisac’s name. “Market it? Isn’t this supposed to be about the art?”
“I think they’re moved beyond that. They kept asking me about how I would display them, what the initial marketing plan would be, what interactive events we could stage, etc., etc. When this wing opens, they want it to feel like the one must-see-event of the year, not just for people in Oregon, but for art lovers all over America. The idea is to have something so crowded that only a limited number of tickets can be sold every hour. Something people will actually camp in line for. So that simply getting in to the new wing will be an event in itself, you know, with the TV cameras panning over the long lines, so that even people who normally never go to art museums will know they have to see this.”
Doubt nibbled at Claire. “But is that the kind of thing you want, Dante?”
“I don’t know if it matters what I want. That’s what everyone wants now, a marketing plan, not a discussion of the scholarship. Museums are hurting for money like everyone else. Without money, they say they can’t afford scholarship. Big museums today aren’t necessarily about study. It’s just as much about entertainment and politics. Spectacle has overwhelmed serious scholarship. Take the Jackie O. exhibit we had. It was ostensibly about her style, but it was more about the woman. And how much of it was about art at all? A blockbuster exhibition can underwrite a lot of scholarship, just like a blockbuster potboiler can underwrite the same publisher’s putting out more scholarly works.”
“In some ways, don’t you have to give people what they want? Or in the case of the Jackie O. exhibit you just know someone is going to do it, so it might as well be you. I mean, there’s a place for both things, isn’t there?”
“I think most museums are afraid they are in danger of being forgotten. So they court attention any way they can. Do you think anyone was really sorry when Guiliani denounced the Virgin Mary painted in elephant dung at that Brooklyn show a few years back? Far from it. He started talking about obscenity and an outrage and threatening bans and a whole lot more people were suddenly willing to line up for three hours to see it. A scandal can be the icing on the cake.”
That was the third time Dante had mentioned Allen Lisac’s name in the last five minutes. Claire looked at her watch. In less than half an hour, she would be face-to-face again with the Lisacs – and she didn’t know whether they would recognize her or not. Should she just keep quiet, and hope that she went unrecognized? Or should she confess now, before she got in even worse trouble? Dante had asked her not to go with Charlie, and she had gone. Claire knew that he would consider her betrayal compounded if he learned about it from the Lisacs over dinner.
She interrupted him in mid-sentence. “There’s something I need to tell you about before we go to Mercury.”
Dante looked at her for a long moment, then sat back in his chair and folded his arms.
Deciding this was a bad sign, Claire poured herself a fresh glass of beer before she began. “It’s about the Lisacs,” she said, after taking a long sip.
He pressed his lips together, then opened them only wide enough to say, “You didn’t.”
It wasn’t really a question, so Claire didn’t answer it. Instead, she took another swallow of beer and tried to make a fourth ring on the table even as the others faded away.
Dante leaned forward. “You went to their house? Claire, this is the man whose collection I’m hoping to oversee. Are you trying to throw a wrench in the works? This is going to be very awkward.”
“But I never gave my name. And I wore a disguise.”
“A disguise! You sound like a child who thinks if she closes her eyes that no one else can see her.”
“They didn’t even talk to me, just Charlie.” Claire tried to sound innocent. “Are you saying you didn’t want me to return Allen Lisac’s ex-fiancé’s ring, one that had been in the family for generations?”
“I’m not saying that, and you know it.” Dante’s tone was exasperated. “But Charlie could have gone over by herself. You should have just stayed out of it.”
“Charlie asked me to go along. It was very important to her. She wanted me to be with her to see how they reacted when they saw the ring.” Claire leaned forward. “Dante, there was a lot of blood on Elizabeth’s head. Even though she fell after they cut her down, dead people don’t bleed. That means whatever happened to Elizabeth must have happened before she died, not after. Maybe she didn’t kill herself at all. Maybe someone strung up Elizabeth’s body after she was already dead.”
Dante’s arms were still crossed. “Claire, are you sure it’s really possible for Charlie to remember a little detail about something that happened decades ago? And I’m sure the whole event was very confusing and upsetting for her. I can’t even remember what happened last week.”
“Charlie’s memory is probably better tha
n both yours and mine together. And she remembers things that happened decades ago as if they were yesterday.”
“Yeah, but how do you know her memory is exact? This was more than fifty years ago.” With exaggerated enunciation, he added, “Five-zero. If it was a murder, why didn’t they pick up on it then?”
“Charlie says the police were never called, just the funeral home. Allen Lisac’s father pulled in a few favors and had it all hushed up.” Without quite remembering how it had gotten that way, Claire realized her beer was gone. She reached for the pitcher and poured another glass.
“It’s still been fifty years. What can anyone prove now? It’s not like there’s a crime scene anyone can investigate. You’ve got no clues, beyond this ring showing up in the wall and Charlie’s brand new hunches.”
“That’s not true!” Claire set her glass down with a thump that was harder than she had intended. “Nova says Elizabeth was pregnant! Back in 1951, that might have given Allen Lisac a reason to kill her.”
“Who’s Nova? And how does she know Elizabeth was pregnant? And why would that make Allen Lisac the killer? You said she was his fiancé.”
“One possibility is that Allen Lisac got mad at Elizabeth when she turned up pregnant. But Howard’s theory is that the killer was a thief.”
“Who’s How-” Dante started to ask, then stopped in mid-sentence. “Claire, listen to yourself. You’re not making sense. Are these little bits of fifty-year-old hearsay enough to mess up my one chance to live in the same city as you? Is it that you don’t want me to come to Portland, but you can’t think of a way to tell me, is that it?” His expression was no longer angry, but pained.
Claire didn’t want to screw up the chance for Dante to get this job. Or did she? Her thoughts were about as clear as creamed corn. What would happen to them if Dante did move here? Dante had told her it was common for curators to move from museum to museum to climb the ladder, but still, Claire was sure he wouldn’t have looked twice at this job if it weren’t for her. If he came here, would he grow to resent her for taking him away from his home? For his moving from a bustling city to one where the streets of downtown were deserted after ten at night? Was part of her secretly hoping that he wouldn’t get this position, that they could continue their long-distance romance, not put it to a test she wasn’t sure they could pass? If she had to choose between Dante in New York and no Dante at all, Claire knew which she would pick.