ONE

      Not quite camouflaged by tree trunks, the carnivorous mammal gazed at the beautiful nude woman who reclined in an antique bathtub.
      The woman wasn’t frightened. Maybe she hadn’t noticed the shaggy black mane and tufted tail. Or the amber eyes that glittered lustfully. Maybe she had, for her lips, slightly parted, seemed to say: “Are you thirsty, sweetie? Are you hungry, sweetie? Are you by any chance a vegetarian, sweetie?”
      Desert sun shed its lemon-colored light over roller-coaster dunes and a small oasis of palm trees with blue-tinged fronds. The woman’s red flowing hair met silvery sand. Her left arm lay alongside the bathtub’s rim, her hand curled into a subtle summons, like a child waving bye-bye backwards. The tub’s water flirtatiously splashed against her breasts.
      Although he hadn’t actually moved, the carnivorous mammal’s tawny body appeared to have sidled closer. And although he didn’t actually lick his chops, he looked rapacious, voracious, hungry as a—
     “‘ Tiger, tiger burning bright, in the forests of the night.’”
     “ It’s a lion, Peter.” Ellie Bernstein drew her gaze away from the painting that enhanced the art gallery’s off-white wall. “And the lion is prowling through the deserts of the day, not the forests of the night.”
     “ I suppose you can do better,” her significant other said, his voice filled with mock indignation. “Mick and Sandra swear you have more quotes than a chocolate-chip cookie has chips.”
      Before she morphed into a diet club leader, Ellie had worked part-time at the library. There, she’d memorized obscure poems, epigrams, and aphorisms. Her son Mick and his girlfriend Sandra lived in Boulder, Colorado, and they were right. She did have more quotes than a chocolate-chip cookie has chips, even though she hadn’t wolfed down cookies, chocolate-chip or otherwise, in a long time. Well, to be perfectly honest, she sometimes succumbed to Girl Scout cookies. Chocolate mint. Who wouldn’t?
     “ Come on, do better,” Peter challenged.
     “‘ I like little pussy, her coat is so warm,’” Ellie recited. “‘And if I don’t hurt her, she’ll do me no harm.’ Jane Taylor, English poet, died around eighteen twenty-fi . . .” She swallowed the rest of her words at the sound of Peter’s laughter. “Stop it! Everybody’s looking at us.”
     “ I like a little pussy,” he gasped.
     “ Little, not ‘a’ little. Do stop chortling, Peter. Act your age.”
     “ Since when does laughter have an age limit?”
     “ It doesn’t, unless it’s lecherous.”
    “ Low blow, lady. Lecherous implies old men who suffer from gout. My laugh was raunchy.”
     “ Suggestive.”
     “ Risqué.”
     “ You always have to have the last word, don’t you?”
     “ Yup.”
      She stepped back a few paces. “Speaking of suggestive, that’s one of the most sensuous paintings I’ve ever seen. You can almost reach out and touch its heat.
     “ How much does it cost, Norrie?”
      That brought a smile to her face. Most people called her Ellie. Only Peter called her Norrie, short for Eleanor. Because, he said, she ig-nored his advice.
     “ The price tag reads NFS, not for sale,” she said. “It’s from the artist’s own collection and that appetizingly vulnerable woman is his wife Heather.”
     “ Okay, I’ll buy you a painting that’s FS.”
     “ Peter, how sweet.” Ellie tightened her belt, dividing the petals of several red poppies. The poppies made a spectacular splash across the front of her white dress, size twelve. “Garrett Halliday paintings start at around five thousand dollars.”
     “ You’ve got to be kidding. For five grand we could attend a starving artists sale and I could buy you a hundred paintings, a hundred frames, and dinner at Uncle Vinnie’s Gourmet Italian Restaurant.”
      Ellie watched him glance around the gallery, noting (as she had) that people wore everything from evening gowns and tuxedos to air-conditioned-at-the-knees jeans, topped by bustiers and trendy T-shirts. One patron, who had wandered in from the 1970s, sported sculpted sideburns, bellbottoms, and The Grateful Dead.
      In point of fact, she already owned a Garrett Halliday painting . . . Pussy Willow. She had posed for it, along with her cat, Jackie Robinson. Well, to be perfectly honest, Garrett had used a photograph. Ordering a cat to sit still would be like asking it for a urine sample. Her painting graced one wall of the gallery, on loan for this exhibit. Had her perceptive detective noticed that the woman in the antique tub and the woman in Pussy Willow bore a striking resemblance to each other? There was a good reason for that, but it could wait until later. Peter had said that, after the show, they’d attend an improvisational jazz session at the Dew Drop Inn. She loved jazz. He preferred country-western, the more western the better, and wasn’t that a perfect way to describe their relationship?
      Across the room, not far from her painting, stood a heavy man and a skinny woman. From a distance, the woman looked like Olive Oyl, with a platinum rather than black neck-bun and small, high-heeled slippers that Cinderella had most likely offered for sale on eBay. As Ellie idly watched, the man held a lighter’s flame beneath the tip of a fat cigar. A chorus of “pee-yew!” and “put it out!” greeted his first puff. Someone came running with an ashtray and—
     “ For five grand I could even buy you a starving artist,” Peter said, making an about-face, turning away from the lion-bathtub painting.
     “ What would I do with a starving artist?”
     “ Introduce him to your diet club members. Before and after. He could be the after.”
      Ellie slanted an amused glance at the tall man who stood beside her, at his thick dark hair and silver-streaked mustache. His blue-gray eyes sparkled with tender mischief. His nose, once broken then reset incorrectly, angled toward the left of a mouth that enjoyed kissing.
      Those same lips that could caress her into a kaleidoscope of oblivion could assume a frowning line of professionalism while announcing: “You have the right to remain silent.” A detective with the homicide division of the Colorado Springs Police Department, Peter helped—or hindered—when she played part-time sleuth.
      Her mental dictionary kicked in. Sleuth. Short for sleuthhound. Nosy. Short for nosy parker; chiefly British. Her handsome sleuthhound, whom she loved illogically, madly, passionately, often called her a nosy parker. Born and raised in Colorado, Peter wasn’t the least bit British, but sometimes he sounded a tad anachronistic, as if he’d spent a former life as one of Sherlock’s sidekicks. Conversely, when Peter got hot under the collar, he sounded all-American cop.
      She looked up into his face, rising above a blue denim collar and a Mickey Mouse tie. “It doesn’t work that way, honey,” she said. “If I introduced a starving artist to my diet club members, they’d fatten him up in three shakes of a lamb’s tail. How many times have I told you that a person doesn’t lose weight by starving? A good, healthy, balanced food program—”
     “ Okay, okay, no starving artist. Maybe, instead, we can find a small raunchy Halliday and put it on lay-away.”
     “ I think the best we can do is find Garrett Halliday. Here he comes now.”
      Ellie finger-combed her shoulder-length hair. Although she hadn’t seen Garrett in five years, she considered him a close friend. He called her ex-husband “Tony Baloney” and her son “Bernstein Bear” and her mother, whom he’d met once, “Dragon Lady.” Ellie had been his “little red-feathered cygnet,” an obvious misnomer since she hadn’t been exactly little, a plump rooster was the only bird she’d even remotely resembled, and her blush of youth had been the blush of Estée Lauder.
      And yet tonight she felt she deserved the nickname “young swan.” To be even more precise, she felt like the swan in The Ugly Duckling.
      As she licked her index finger and ran it underneath her eyes, eliminating any trace of smudged mascara, she remembered how Garrett had always flirted shamelessly, his innuendoes sincere, while his soul mate Heather, secure in her own sensuality, had looked on with an indulgent smile.
     Pride goeth before a fall, Ellie’s mother liked to say. But all the same, Ellie couldn’t stop grinning. Because the last time she’d seen Garrett Halliday, she’d weighed an additional fifty-five pounds.
      Garrett looked delicious. He could have been simmering on top of a stove. Rastafarian dreadlocks enhanced his café au lait face. Parsley-flaked eyes crinkled at the corners. A beet-red shirt had been tucked into cocoa-colored cords, and he exuded the same sexy excitement as a dynamic singing star; country-western; ache-y-break-y. Bottom line: Garrett Halliday looked like a man who could first ache, then break, hearts.
      Following in the artist’s wake was a short, voluptuous woman. Her spike-heeled sandals defied gravity. Her hair, the same color as the desert painting’s sand, sported a Dutch cut, not unlike the Buster Brown boy who lived in shoes. Haircut aside, anyone with the IQ of a Q-tip could see that she was most definitely not a boy, nor for that matter, a child. A low-cut black dress emphasized incredible cleavage, then fell in pleated swirls to the top of her thighs. When she accelerated, her undies were visible. Ellie had seen her undies before. No, not undies. Panties. If one skated on thin ice, one wore panties. Toting a half-empty champagne bottle and a half-full crystal goblet, she looked like an advertisement for a friends-don’t-let-friends-drive-drunk campaign.
      Peter gave a muted whistle. “Is that Halliday’s wife?”
     “ Of course not,” Ellie said. “His wife’s in the bathtub.”
     “ What?”
     “ Does she look like the woman in Garrett’s painting?”
     “ Oh. Right.”
     “ She’s his mother,” Ellie said.
     “ No kidding. Then I’d like to have a few sips of whatever youth potion she’s been taking. Halliday has to be in his forties while his mother can’t be more than thirty.”
     “ She’s actually his stepmother, Adrianna Halliday. Once upon a time she was Adrianna Bouchet, the Canadian figure skating champion, and she’d raise a few eyebrows with her abbreviated undies . . . I mean panties . . . hello, Garrett.”
      As Ellie stared into the artist’s classic-featured face, a childhood rhyme came to mind and her fingers flexed. Here is the church, here is the steeple. She considered herself medium height. Garrett was as tall as a steeple.
     “ Ellie?” His gaze touched upon her body. “Ellie, you look lovely. I must capture your hair with my paintbrush.”
     “ You’ve already captured my hair. And my heart.” As she easily feigned the light, flirty tone she’d always used with Garrett, she glanced at Peter. Who looked bemused.
      No, not bemused. A-mused.
     “ My little red-feathered cygnet,” Garrett said, and to Ellie his voice sounded like the chocolate frosting on a devil’s food cake, “where are your succulent Rubenesque curves?”
     “ I gave up succulent Reuben sandwiches for three ounces of melted, low-sodium cheese.”
     “ I adore your new angles,” he said, “especially those shadows beneath your breasts and between your legs. When are you going to pose for me again?”
     “ Any time. Twist my arm.”
     “ A pleasure.”
      Lifting and rotating her arm, he nibbled a kiss on her wrist-pulse.
      Ellie glanced at Peter again. She tried to remember if he’d ever seen her play the coquette—and came up empty. Later, if necessary, she’d explain that Garrett had been the only man in her overweight past to turn her inside out and decipher what lay beneath her “Rubenesque curves.”
     “ That’s a nice twist, Garrett,” she said, bringing her attention back to his ticklish wrist-nibble. “Do you want me to pose here and now?”
      He shook his head. “We must find ourselves a secluded studio, my lamb. I’ll paint you clothed in nothing more than a cluster of purple grapes. The grapes will enhance your auburn hair and turquoise eyes. Then I’ll eat them, one by one.”
     “ My eyes?”
     “ No. The grapes. But I’d love to lick your eyes shut.”
      Oh, God, this time she couldn’t read Peter’s expression. Would he understand that Garrett was teasing, what Heather used to call stirring? Before Ellie could conjure up an explanation, Garrett said, “Where’s Tony Baloney? And how’s that adorable son of yours? Michael. My Bernstein Bear.”
     “ Tony and I are divorced,” Ellie replied. “He’s in California, selling real estate. I think he caused the latest earthquake, a scare tactic so he could list more houses. Michael’s not exactly a Bernstein Bear anymore. He calls himself Mick, after Jagger, and he’s formed his own band, Rocky Mountain High. He attends the University of Colorado, English Lit major. He’s also taking creative writing courses. Like mother, like son, I guess. I’ve been working on a mystery novel I started eons ago. It’s not easy, writing books. But every time I think about giving up, I remember what Heather used to say. ‘If you drop a dream, it breaks.’”
      Apparently, Garrett had only caught the first five words of her monologue. Arching an eyebrow, he said, “You’re divorced?”
     “ My mother says I’m recycled.” She turned to her recycling center. “Peter, this is Garrett Halliday. Garrett, Peter Miller.”
      While the two men shook hands, Garrett’s companion refilled her goblet, shook the champagne bottle, then shook it again. With a petulant moue, she placed the bottle against the wall. Returning to Garrett, she poked his ribs with a sharp elbow. At first he brushed her off. Then, as if dredging up a corpse, he said, “Ellie Bernstein, Peter Miller, may I present Adrianna Bouchet Halliday?”
      Social graces intact, Garrett’s mobile mouth twisted into an expression Ellie couldn’t decipher. So she smiled a greeting and said, “I watched you win the Canadian Nationals on TV, Madame Halliday. You skated to Leonard Bernstein’s ‘Oh, Happy We’ from Candide and you were wonderful.”
     “Merci beaucoup.” Sidling closer to Peter, Adrianna lifted her right wrist to his lips. “Your mustache, it is so soft, monsieur. Are you an artiste?”
     “ Only in his choice of neckties,” Ellie said. “Monsieur Miller is un gardien de la paix.”
     Adrianna abruptly lowered her arm and returned her right hand to the stem of her goblet. “Parlez-vous français, Madame Bernstein?”
     “ A little. I visited Paris once, a graduation gift from my wealthy grandmother. Ou sont les WC’s, s’il vous plait?”
     “Where’s the toilet? Oh, you tease.”
      Adrianna’s smile didn’t reach her cornflower-blue eyes, and Ellie wondered why.
     “ We’ve been admiring this painting,” Peter said, his first words since Garrett and Adrianna’s cyclonic appearance, even though Ellie knew he was cataloging impressions then guiding a mental computer mouse toward the “Save” icon inside his head.
      Garrett chuckled. “Thanks, Miller. My bathing woman and lion cliché is from an earlier collection. I’ve changed my style. I’d sell the damn thing except it’s Adrianna’s favorite.”
     “ Oui. I love Monsieur Leon.” Adrianna cocked her head. “Are you perhaps a sister to Garrett’s wife, Madame Bernstein?”
     “ Only in spirit. I’m older than Heather, but we used to tell everyone we were separated at birth.” Focusing on the canvas, Ellie said, “The colors are vivid, Garrett, the mood sensual. Holy cow, the title’s misspelled. D-e-s-s-e-r-t. Desert Song would only have one ‘s.’”
     “ But dee-sert has two.”
     “ Of course.” Ellie smiled. “The lion wants the lady for dessert.”
     “ I thought about you when I painted it.” Garrett winked at Peter. “When I was a struggling artist, my wife and I dined on piece de resistance de peanut butter. Ellie would invite us over for dinner at the drop of a hat, especially holidays, only she called them ‘hallidays.’ She’d baste a turkey, char-broil a steak, roast a leg of lamb, and she always whipped up sugary desserts that melted in your mouth.”
     “ Speaking of sugar and spice and everything nice,” Ellie said, “where’s Heather?”
     “ She’s not into braving crowds.” Momentarily, Garrett’s face betrayed a deep anguish. Then—click—as if somebody had slid a transparency into a slide projector, his demeanor changed to one of annoyance. “Ouch,” he said. “Adrianna, stop poking my ribs. What the bloody hell do you want now?”
      She turned her goblet upside-down. “Empty.”
      This time, Garrett’s laughter sounded strained. “Since Heather couldn’t attend,” he said, “Adrianna’s playing hostess. She’s definitely into public affairs, aren’t you, my pet?”
     “ So are you, Garrett. Please, my glass, it is empty.”
     “ You’ve had enough.”
     “Merde!” Pouting prettily, she turned her face toward Peter. “You will bring me more champagne, Monsieur Policeman, oui?”
     Before Peter could respond, Garrett said, “Forget it, Miller. She’s already consumed more bubbles than an irreverent kid who’s forced to gargle Ivory mouthwash. Ellie, let’s get together soon and do art. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll find the chauffeur and have him drive my mother back to the hotel.”
      Adrianna’s eyes narrowed. She tossed her silver-blond hair. The sudden motion apparently triggered dizziness. Staggering backward, she sagged against the woman-lion-bathtub painting.
     “ Careful darlin’, that big ole cat’s gonna chew you up and spit you out,” Garrett drawled. “Adrianna? Baby, are you okay?”
     “Merde,” she said weakly.
      Her goblet fell, shattering against the gallery floor. Adrianna followed the goblet’s descent, and the only thing Ellie could think of was: Pride goeth before a fall.
     Then she thought: Poison! Adrianna’s been poisoned!
     But Adrianna hadn’t stopped breathing. In fact, the petite blonde exhaled wine fumes.
     She’s rag-doll-drunk, Ellie thought. Dead, if you’ll excuse the expression, drunk.
     Peter instinctively stepped toward Adrianna, but Garrett had already scooped her up into his arms, and Ellie could have sworn his lick-your-chops expression duplicated his painted lion’s. Rapacious. Voracious. Hungry.

---

TWO

      Ellie felt like Scarlett O’Hara.
       Scarlett at the bazaar.
       The scene where Scarlett’s feet dance, hidden by a booth’s valance.
       Seated rather than standing, elbows on cocktail napkins, chin cradled in her hands, Ellie’s feet danced. She didn’t have Scarlett’s minuscule waist, nor did she possess a Southern accent, but her beau drove her nuts (in a good way) with his Clark Gable grin.
      “ I’m hungry,” she said, her voice pure Coloradoan. “Those gallery hors d’oeuvres were not on my Weight Winners menu. I couldn’t even pretend the egg rolls were protein.”
       Lowering her arms, she leaned back in her chair and glanced around. The Dew Drop Inn was dimly lit and bursting at the seams. Clad in black shorts and yellow halter tops, cocktail waitresses swarmed like giant bumblebees. The Dew Drop’s owner, Charley Aaronson, was checking the ID of a young man who looked only slightly older than his shoe size. The aroma of popcorn, lime juice, pineapple and coconut overpowered the stench of sweat. Mounted above the bar was a mute TV, where Denver Nuggets and Houston Rockets traded dribbles.
       A jazz combo dominated a small, raised stage. The vocalist, a bleached blonde with earth-stained roots, held a microphone to her lips. She looked as if she wanted to suck its amplified tip. In a breathy voice, she gasped, “Fee-vah all thru-hoo the na-hite.”
      “ If I can snare a server, I’ll order us something to eat,” Peter said, then winced.
       Ellie knew why he winced. He sat so close to the Baby Boomer behind him, he could probably smell the man’s Old Spice deodorant.
       She could smell it. One of her dubious assets was a great sense of smell. She could identify perfumes by name, too, probably because tendrils of scent used to emanate from her ex-husband’s clothing. The scents were almost always verified by the credit card receipts stuffed inside his pockets. White button-down shirt, White Shoulders perfume, white (sometimes yellow) receipt.
       Old Spice’s companion, who looked vaguely familiar, had drenched herself with Opium perfume. Ellie didn’t particularly care for Opium, so she reached into a wooden salad bowl, captured a handful of popcorn, and held it under her nose like a potpourri sachet.
       Maneuvering his chair closer to the table, Peter tried to talk above the blare of mouth organ, polyphonic sax, keyboard, and a melancholy licorice stick.
      “ Dessert song,” he said. “So you do have a thing for starving artists.”
      “ Define thing.” She pelted him with the popcorn. “Five years ago my marriage was tumbling downhill faster than Jack and Jill, but I never considered having a ‘thing’ with Garrett. Assuming I had the chutzpah to cheat on Tony, Garrett only had eyes for his wife. You saw the lion painting. Heather’s beautiful.”
      “ Just like my Norrie. The nude in the bathtub was a turn-on, but I prefer your grape-highlighted hair.”
      “ Everything tonight seems to be a turn-on, Peter. You’re holding back a secret, and I know what it is.”
      “ You do?”
      “ Sure. You’ve just solved an unsolvable crime and received a grateful bonus check from an anonymous donor. More than enough to buy me a Garrett Halliday painting, an ornate frame, and a scrumptious dinner at Uncle Vinnie’s Gourmet Italian Restaurant.”
      “ Give me a break, Norrie. Since when have I worked on a case you didn’t know about?”
      “ True. Was Adrianna a turn-on?”
      “ Hardly. I don’t respond well to women who say merde,” he said, grinning his Clark Gable grin.
       Touché, she thought. Peter knew she’d gone to Catholic schools where the nuns didn’t allow cussing. Her ex-husband didn’t like to “swear in front of girls,” and God forbid she should cuss in front of Tony. She had once hit her thumb with a hammer and screamed, “Heck, ohheck, ohheckdarn!” When she and Peter first met, during the diet club murders, her most profane expletive had been “holy cow.” Bullshit had been as foreign as . . . well, bull shit. Until Miller-osmosis kicked in.
       Clutching the mike with one hand, the jazz singer made a fingered fan with her other hand. “Oooh, ahhh, every-body’s got the fee-vah,” she sang, fanning her face with her fingers.
      “ Now I know how come you own a Garrett Halliday painting,” Peter said. “When you told me Halliday’s price tag, I wondered.”
      “ Before they moved to Aspen, Garrett and Heather lived in Colorado Springs. Heather worked as a teller at my bank. The first time we saw each other we did a mutual double take. We look alike, except way back then I weighed a tad more . . .” She paused, thinking sixty pounds was a tad more than a tad more.
      “ Tony found Garrett a nice rental at a price he could afford,” she continued. “Garrett and Heather often joined us for dinner and the painting was a gift. Heather and I swore we’d keep in touch.” She shook her head ruefully. “As for Garrett, he always gives good flirt. No, that’s unfair. He really, truly likes women—tall, short, fat, thin—and women sense that, so he attracts them like a magnet. Physical attributes and hair color aside, the women in his paintings remind me of Audrey Hepburn. Men wanted to sleep with her and women wanted to be her. Am I making any sense?”
      “ Yes, Audrey.”
       Behind Peter, the Boomers were arguing over The Devil’s Advocate. Who played the wife? Ashley Judd or Charlize Theron? Old Spice pumped his fist. Opium Lady stood up, swiveled, and stomped toward the Dew Drop restrooms.
      “ I can’t imagine why Heather didn’t come to the gallery opening,” Ellie said. “Garrett’s ‘not into braving crowds’ was a crock. Crowds have never bothered Heather. She’s a people-person.”
      “ It’s been a while since you’ve seen her, Norrie. Maybe she’s changed.”
      “ Maybe.” She heard the doubt in her voice.
      “ More wine, sweetheart?”
      “ No, thanks. I don’t want to end up like Adrianna, falling down drunk. She’s one sick lady.”
      “ Yup. Everybody’s got the fee-vah. Where’s Garrett’s father? Why wasn’t he at the gallery?”
      “ How do you know he wasn’t?”
      “ Adrianna’s a ‘trophy wife.’ He’d want her by his side, on a tight rein.”
       Again, Ellie admired Peter’s capacity to catalogue mental impressions. “John Halliday died last year,” she said. “It was in all the papers. Reporters loved to write about him. They always compared him to Howard Hughes because Halliday was supposedly eccentric and his first wife, Garrett’s mother, was an actress. She appeared with Dorothy Dandridge in that Carmen movie.” Ellie crushed a piece of popcorn between her thumb and first finger. “Adrianna’s a ‘merry widow,’ although she didn’t seem all that merry tonight.”
      “ Aha.”
      “ Is that ‘aha’ an insinuation, Peter? Adrianna may look great in undies. She may even have an aging Lolita, femme-naïf appeal. But Garrett and Heather are very much in love, or at least they were the last time I saw them. Stop playing sleazy detective. Soon you’ll light an unfiltered cigarette and call me a dame.”
      “ A dame, my crossword puzzle addict, is an aristocrat. Speaking of French-Canadian bluebloods, do you know why Adrianna quit skating?”
      “ Some say she clubbed a rival over the head, taking her out of contention. It happened in a dark corridor, the skater was hit from behind, and she, the skater, never saw the perp. The skater’s brains were scrambled. She recovered, but the crime remains unsolved. Adrianna subsequently fell on the ice and permanently injured her knee. Karma, I guess. A few months later she posed for Playboy and met John Halliday. What time is it, honey?”
       He squinted at his watch. “Ten-fifteen.”
      “ Melody should be here soon. She was so busy directing everything at the gallery, we just waved hello.”
      “ Now there’s an artist I can afford. When is the gallery going to spotlight her work?”
      “ This September. Right now Melody’s happy managing the gallery, and she’s responsible for landing Garrett. He usually exhibits locally, in Aspen. Holy cow, Peter. That’s the second time you’ve grinned at the word ‘Aspen.’”
      “ You’re such a fine detective, Norrie.”
      “ Why are you grinning like that?”
      “ Like what?”
      “ My cat. Have you swallowed the proverbial canary?”
      “ Are you absolutely certain you don’t want any more wine?”
      “ What’s up, Lieutenant?”
      “ Me. We have vacation reservations. Seven days, one stress-free week, at a ranch near Snowmass, right next door to Aspen. We leave the day after tomorrow.”
      “ Holy cow, Peter, a horse ranch?”
      “ Very good, Norrie. Most people would have said hippopotamus ranch.”
      “ But I can’t leave Colorado Springs.”
      “ Why not?”
      “ Weight Winners. I have my weekly lectures and—”
      “ Find someone to cover for you.”
      “ Jackie Robinson won’t stay at a kennel.”
      “ We’ll take him with us. The ranch allows pets.”
      “ I’d love to see Garrett again. And Heather. How long have you had this planned? Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Last week, for instance? Or last night?”
      “ Last night we were busy.”
      “ Since when do we ‘busy’ in silence?”
      “ True. You like to wheedle when my defenses are down.” He glanced down at his lap. “My defenses are up. Or will be, as soon as we leave this madhouse.”
      “ I’ve got nothing to wheedle about,” she said, ignoring his spicy hint. “The last few C.S.P.D. crimes have been Murder, She Wrote reruns, eminently solvable.”
      “ Let’s go home and put some Dixie Chicks on the stereo. Or,” he bribed, “Peggy Lee.”
      “ Soon.” Ellie fiddled with the stem of her wineglass. “Garrett looked like Leo.”
      “ The kid in that Titanic movie?”
      “ No. Leo the MGM lion. Monsieur Leon. The lion in the bathtub painting. Garrett was practically licking his chops when he carried Adrianna from the room.”
       Peter Groucho’d his eyebrows. “Let me carry you from the room, Norrie. I want to pay homage to those lovely shadows beneath your breasts.”
      “ We can’t. I promised Melody we’d meet her here.”
      “ Okay. But when we’re on vacation there won’t be any distractions, just sex and sunsets.”
      “ A ranch,” Ellie said. “I don’t know anything about horses. I have Mick’s tattered copy of The Black Stallion and I’ve watched the Kentucky Derby on TV. And Mr. Ed . . . a horse is a horse, of course . . . holy cow! I’ve never skied in my life, if you don’t count my Robert Redford fantasies.”
      “ Ah, Downhill Racer,” Peter said, ignoring her fantasy confession.
      “ Too bad you have to go uphill before you come downhill.”
      “ It’s off-season, Norrie. The slopes close in May. Aspen licks its winter wounds and gets ready for summer. The ranch will be tourist-free, practically deserted. The wranglers, kitchen staff, and miscellaneous personnel get a month off, leaving behind a skeleton crew.”
      “ How do you know? Have you been there before?”
      “ Once. Four years ago. My sister, her husband, and their three kids visit every year at this time. Here comes Melody, although I swear you’d need X-ray vision to spot anyone in this crowd.”
       As she approached the table, Melody Dorack’s brown eyes danced with excitement. Scissors-licked curls bounced on her shoulders like curlicues of shaved wood. A Weight Winners graduate, she wore a short green dress that revealed her newly discovered assets. A yellow scarf was knotted at her neck pulse. From the chin down she looked like an R-rated Girl Scout.
      “ Where’s your other half?” Rising, Peter tried to free a chair, inch by inch. He bumped Old Spice and shrugged away the man’s glare.
       Opium Lady was, presumably, still sequestered inside the restroom— Ellie thwacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. No wonder Opium Lady looked so familiar. She had unraveled her platinum bun and changed into designer jeans and what looked like a cashmere sweater, but she still bore a resemblance to Olive Oyl. And Old Spice was the man who’d lit up the fat stogie at the gallery. Later, Ellie had caught a glimpse of him handing out business cards. Most people trashed them.
      “ Gordon’s at home with a nasty virus,” Melody said. “Everyone else gets sick in the winter but my husband prefers to wait for warmer weather.”
       Her voice was the antithesis of her name; high and scratchy, like fingernails across a chalkboard. The screechy timbre, due to a teenage tragedy, had resulted in what Melody called her Deep Throat Scar.
      “ How’s everything at the gallery?” Ellie asked.
      “ Hectic. And terrific. People made the trek from all over. Castle Rock. Denver. Boulder. We just about sold out.”
      “ Why wasn’t Heather there?”
      “ Heather?”
      “ Heather Halliday.”
      “ I knew who you meant, Ellie, but Heather hasn’t been seen very much since the fire.”
      “ What fire?”
      “ Three years ago Garrett’s studio caught on fire. Before anyone could stop her, Heather ran inside, through the flames, to save Garrett’s paintings. She was badly burned.”
      “ Oh my God! I didn’t know. How badly?”
      “ She’s had a bunch of skin grafts, but the right side of her face is disfigured. She rarely appears in public, and when she does she wears a heavy veil to hide her scars.” Offhandedly, Melody fingered the scarf at her neckline.
      “ I didn’t know,” Ellie repeated. “No one told me.” She blinked back tears. “Talk about opening mouth, inserting foot. I asked about Heather. At the gallery. I asked why she wasn’t there. No wonder Garrett looked so . . . so . . .”
      “ Unhappy?”
      “ More than unhappy. Anguished. Wait a minute. Garrett’s lion painting. All his paintings. Heather’s face is—”
      “ Unflawed. Garrett paints her over and over the way she used to look. It’s so sad, especially since Heather supported him through the lean years and could now stand by his side and share his success.”
       Melody yawned, gave Ellie a sheepish smile, then said, “To put it bluntly, Heather’s responsible for his success.”
      “ What do you mean?”
      “ Seven, maybe eight months after the fire, People magazine did a big write up, with photos. They focused on how Garrett continued painting Heather despite her ‘disfigurement.’ They called Garrett and Heather ‘the romance of the century.’ Folks ate it up, especially women. CNN turned it into one of their People profile segments and soon the demand for Garrett’s ‘Heather paintings’ exceeded the supply. Even better, his print and postcard reproductions sold like hot cakes, and they continue to sell well today. But despite his undeniably blatant narcissism, I think he was uncomfortable with the article and TV exposure because he emphatically refuses to exhibit outside of Colorado. And I know for a fact that he’s been courted by some the finest, most lucrative galleries in London, Paris, and New York.”
      “ Are you saying that if Garrett didn’t paint his wife, he wouldn’t be so popular?” Peter asked, cutting to the chase. “Or successful?”
      “ That’s exactly what I’m saying. Garrett’s a phenomenal artist, but Heather is his . . . attention-grabber. Or, as they say in the musical Gypsy, his ‘gimmick.’”
      “ I can’t wait to have a nice long visit with her, poor lamb.” Ellie felt tears threaten again.
      “ Ellie, it’s been three years since the fire,” Melody said softly. “Heather helped me with the exhibit. She’s a tad reclusive, but fine. You don’t have to drive all the way to Asp—”
      “ Peter made reservations at a dude ranch.”
      “ The ranch isn’t far from Aspen,” he clarified.
      “ We’re leaving the day after tomorrow, assuming I can find someone to cover my Weight Winners classes,” Ellie said. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m going to kill Garrett. He should have called me, told me about Heather.”
      “ I’ll cover your classes,” Melody said. “I’ll even give an art lesson, have people draw themselves the way they want to look. Would you like to take a poll on how many ‘stick figures’ I get?”
       Peter nudged Melody, then placed his finger against his lips. “This is a secret,” he said around the finger, “but Eddie Arcaro over there was just telling me how much she wants to ride a black stallion in the Kentucky Derby.”
       Ellie shook her head. “When my son was barely out of diapers, I read The Black Stallion to him, and I know that Eddie Arcaro was a famous jockey who rode horses in the Kentucky Derby, but the closest I’ve ever come to a derby was when Tony entered Mick in a soap box derby. Mick won but was disqualified. Tony built the damn car, or go-cart, or whatever the heck it’s called, and added some sort of driving mechanism. It’s supposed to be gravity propulsion only, and I’ve never ridden anything except a carousel horse . . .” She paused for breath, aware that she was jabbering. Oh, God, poor Heather, so beautiful, so secure in her beauty she’d never spent one red cent on cosmetics. Not even mascara!
       Meeting Peter’s gaze, Ellie saw that his blue-gray eyes were warm with compassion. Then he patted Melody’s shoulder and said, “Let me order you a drink, honey.”
      “ Thanks, but I have to play nurse.” She winked. “Wasn’t it Mary Poppins who sang something about sugar helping the medicine go down?”
       Old Spice pivoted in his chair and stared at Melody. “Hi there,” he said.
      “ Hello,” she said, her voice uncertain.
      “ Me and the wife met you at the gallery.”
      “ I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”
      “ Lassiter, first name Owen,” he said, as though indexing himself in a telephone directory. “Me and the wife bought the redhead on Santa’s lap.”
      “ Yes. I remember now. You chose a terrific painting, Mr. Lassiter.”
      “ The wife picked it out. She said it was a good investment.”
       Melody nodded. “Christmas Carol is from an earlier period. We had three première-period paintings on exhibit and—”
      “ I thought that only happens when the artist goes belly-up.”
      “ Excuse me?”
      “ I thought the price only goes up when the artist drops dead.” Lassiter glanced toward the restrooms. “The wife musta fell in.”
       A good investment, my foot, thought Ellie. The eroticism in Christmas Carol was more subtle than Garrett’s up-to-date paintings, but if you had a sleazy imagination, Santa could be sampling the flame-haired “Carol.”
       Rising, Lassiter began to plow his way to the bar. He bumped into one of the bumblebee cocktail waitresses. He seemed to chastise her. Even from a distance, Ellie could see the girl’s face turn red. Then he appeared to apologize. Pressing some money against her palm, he gestured toward the restrooms. The waitress shook her head. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out more money. The waitress nodded.
      “ Gosh, you guys, I should have introduced you,” Melody said.
      “ Introduced us? Oh. Lassiter.” Ellie’s nose twitched at the lingering scent of Old Spice and beer-belches. “Don’t apologize, Melody. I can’t stomach a man who calls his wife ‘the Wife.’”
      “ Me, either. Phone me when you get back from Aspen, Ellie, and we’ll make arrangements to return your painting. I think it’s one of Garrett’s best, along with Dessert Song and Christmas Carol. His recent works are brilliant but more eclectic. And if you ever need money badly, early Hallidays are worth a fortune. We had several offers, even though Pussy Willow was clearly marked NFS.” She winked again. “Bye, Peter. Have fun jockeying ‘Eddie Arcaro.’”
       As she headed for the exit, Peter sat down. “Why did you lend Melody your painting?”
      “ Garrett wanted it displayed and Melody scanned it onto the brochure, along with a more up-to-date painting. We used my maiden name, for identification purposes, to keep anyone from tracking me down. Except for Wylie Jamestone, Garrett Halliday is Colorado’s most popular native-son-artist, especially when it comes to serious collectors. But I didn’t know, until now, that Heather had played a major role in Garrett’s extraordinary success.”
       Peter flicked an imaginary Groucho-cigar. “What’s the magic word, Norrie?”
      “ Sugar?”
      “ Nope. Wrong. Ride. It’s time for some riding lessons. We’ll start with the tub. Then the bed. Okay?”
      “ Okay,” she said, reaching for some popcorn. “I wonder if Garrett meant anything by that remark.”
      “ What remark?”
      “ Garrett said Adrianna was into public affairs. She said he was, too.”
      “ They were talking about the art exhibit.”
      “ Were they? Melody thinks Garrett’s narcissism is a put on, a pretense, but I don’t agree. Earl Wilson once said, ‘Marriages are like diets. They can be ruined by a little dish on the side.’”
      “ I wouldn’t call Adrianna a little dish.”
       Capturing her arm, nuzzling her palm, Peter ate the popcorn. Then he licked, searching for leftover salt. She tried to ignore the warm sensations that coursed through her body, centering in the shadows between her legs. “What would you call her, honey?”
      “ French cuisine. I prefer spicy American ribs, not to mention breasts, thighs, and . . . what’s that juicy heart-shaped thing on the butt of a chicken?”
      “ My mother calls it the part that goes over the fence last. Maybe I imagined the emphasis Garrett placed on his public affairs remark.”
      “ You’re the one who defended Halliday when I aha-ed.”
      “ I know, but that was before Melody told me about Heather. If Heather’s a lost lamb, Adrianna’s a lamb chop.”
      “ What does that mean?”
      “ Haven’t you ever ordered lamb chops at a restaurant, Peter? They cost a fortune, they’re small and tender, and you gobble them up in less than no time.”
      “ Adrianna’s no lamb chop, Norrie. She’s too indigestible.”
      “ Then why did Garrett Halliday look like his damn lion?”
       A scream drowned out whatever explanation Peter might have offered.
       Owen Lassiter’s cocktail waitress emerged from the restroom. Waving her arms, she looked like a bee warding off humans.
       Peter jumped to his feet, then swore a blue streak when he tripped over the chair Lassiter had abandoned.
       All conversation stopped dead. Even the TV basketball players quit dribbling, as if God had blown a whistle and shouted “Foul!”

 

---

THREE

* * * * *

       Standing in the corner, melting into shadows, an art gallery patron stared at the lion-woman-bathtub painting.
       NFS. Not For Sale.
       Could Dessert Song be destroyed?
       Impossible. There were too many people bustling about.
       Stolen?
       Out of the question. Garrett and the manager who looked like a poodle had left the gallery, but a couple of Security R Us Neanderthals were posted at the exits. In any case, the conformation of the bathing woman, while detailed, showed her left profile.
       Chewing two sticks of gum with teeth that looked as if they were grinding coffee beans, the art patron walked toward another exhibit, also labeled NFS. Titled Pussy Willow, the auburn-haired woman who dominated the canvas caressed a black cat whose eyes resembled the silky aments of a pussy willow.
       Just like Dessert Song, the woman-cat painting was from an earlier period, when Heather Halliday’s face had been whole, beautiful, unflawed, when each brush stroke counted, when every color was uncontaminated, as if Garrett Halliday had borrowed waxed rainbows from a box of crayons.
       Six other Halliday paintings had escaped the funeral pyre.
       The art patron—delayed by road construction—had reached the gallery late, only to find that Christmas Carol had been sold to a lady who looked like Popeye’s girlfriend.
       Polly Wants a Quaker lived in Garrett Halliday’s Aspen gallery, where the chi-chi catalogue valued her at ten thousand dollars, a high price for a “ho,” even if she did come with a horse and buggy straight out of Friendly Persuasion. The movie’s honky goose graced the canvas, too. And while you’d be able to share more than one night with “Polly,” the art patron couldn’t scrape up the ten grand. In any case, the art patron needed . . . what was the word? Something hard to pronounce. Oh, yeah, anonymity.
       Assuming it was authentic, a pre-fire painting belonged to a man named Rudolph Kessler.
       And three paintings were in the art patron’s private collection; three redheads shackled to the wall. Despite exquisite torture and multiple knife wounds, they had, somehow, survived.
       One fine day they’d die.

 

©2005 by Denise Dietz
Excerpt from Chain a Lamb Chop to the Bed
ISBN: 1594144222
Five Star Publishing

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© 2005 Eclectic InterNetWorks
& Denise Dietz