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  I stared at her. “Nettie, we seem to be having a slight problem communicating. I am interested.”

  “Well, it’s my studio. Where I paint.”

  “May I see it?”

  “If you like,” she said, totally impassive again.

  She walked a step or two ahead of me. She was wearing a long bleached denim skirt, almost to her ankles. And above was a knitted sweater in a heathery green. It was sleeveless but the cool breeze didn’t seem a bother. Her bare arms were muscled and I couldn’t decide if she had a deep suntan or if her skin was naturally tawny.

  She had her mother’s height but, fortunately, not her girth. In fact she was quite slender. And flat. Boardlike would be a fitting adjective. But she moved gracefully with a floating stride. Her blond-ish hair was cut short and so ragged I wondered if she barbered herself.

  As for her features, my mother’s verdict, “not pretty but interesting, almost foreign-looking,” was close to the mark. I had seen her narrow face before in Modigliani portraits. Natalie had the same curious mixture of mystery and passivity Amedeo had caught on canvas.

  The door to the studio was closed with a padlock so old and rusty it looked as if a strong yank might spring the shackle. Natalie fished a key from her skirt pocket and, after several ineffective tries, succeeded in opening the lock and then the planked door. She stood aside and motioned me in.

  “It isn’t much,” she said.

  Correct; it wasn’t. I stepped into a square room scantily furnished. I saw none of the scattered paraphernalia usually found in an artist’s workshop. Instead of an easel there was a wooden drafting table, tilted upward, and a high stool with a rattan seat. A tall cupboard with closed doors sagged crazily. I assumed it held brushes, watercolors, and supplies.

  A cot was planted in the center of the floor. It was covered with a single sheet and light cotton blanket. The small pillow was soiled. I could see no plumbing, not even a faucet. The most attractive feature was a skylight: two big hinged windows opened by hanging chains.

  “Plenty of light for your painting,” I observed.

  She suddenly became talkative. “And for two or three hours a day I get the direct sun. I can suntan naked on the cot. After locking the door from the inside of course. See the bolt? I’ve slept here a few nights when the weather is nice. Then I look up and see the stars.”

  She stopped talking as abruptly as she had started and bowed her head as if embarrassed by her outburst. I turned my attention to the walls. The interior of the cabin was lined with cheap wall-board which bore a number of Natalie’s watercolors of imaginary flowers. A few were framed and hung. The others were simply pushpinned to the wall. Again mother had been right: “Some are pretty and some are just blah.”

  I stepped closer to examine her work and sensed her coming up behind me, possibly to observe my reactions. I thought her brushwork was merely serviceable but her sense of color was admirable. The subject matter turned me off—all those buds, blooms, and leaves that never existed in nature but were products of her imagination or dreams. What surprised me were the blossoms with an undeniable resemblance to sexual organs, male and female.

  “Well?” Nettie said at my shoulder. “What do you think?”

  “Striking,” I said. “Unique. Are you familiar with the work of Georgia O’Keeffe?”

  “No.”

  “Take a look,” I advised. “I think you’ll be amazed at what she did.”

  “I don’t want to study other people’s work. I want to be me. Original.”

  “Surely you went to art school to learn technique, perspective, composition. Didn’t you study the work of other artists then?”

  “I never went to art class. I bought a book and taught myself.”

  “Remarkable,” I said.

  “A lot of hard work but I enjoy it. It’s my escape.”

  “From what?”

  “Oh...” she said vaguely. “Things. People.”

  “All people? Surely you have friends.”

  She lifted her chin. “A few,” she said defensively, and I guessed she was lying.

  Perhaps I looked at her pityingly—I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t—but what happened next astounded me. She looped her bare arms about my neck, careened into me, thrust her head forward and attempted to kiss my lips. But in her frantic haste her aim was bad and she kissed my chin. She tried again and this time succeeded. Her mouth was hot.

  She pulled away and gasped, “Archy?” It was an entreaty and the first time she had used my name. Then she kissed me again, her assault so ravenous I staggered back a step. But she would not let me escape and in the blink of a gnat’s eye I found myself clutching her as tightly as she embraced me. I am not made of cedar shingles, you know.

  It was I who had the sense to close the inside bolt on the door before we fumbled away our clothes. We then attempted to determine if a folding cot could bear the weight of two bodies and the demented thumping of our naked pas de deux. It couldn’t, but fortunately it collapsed slowly and I do not believe either of us was aware of our descent to the floor.

  Lordy, her body was magnificent and I recant all those snide comments made previously about its boardlike appearance. Spring steel was more like it; the overall suntan was bronzy rather than tawny. But I wasted little time taking inventory, set to work, and elicited a series of low sounds: sighs, moans, and one muffled sob. Of bliss I hoped. I was, I admit, more vocal than Nettie but I do not believe she was affrightened by my repertoire of yelps, whinnies, and yodels.

  Eventually the game ended of course. Score tied: 1 to 1. We lay there on the ruins of the cot, both of us breathing as if we had just completed the sixty-meter hurdles. She raised her eyes, coughed a short laugh, the corners of her mouth went up. But it was a trompe l’oeil smile given, I guessed, because she thought I expected it.

  “Wonderful,” she said.

  “Ecstasy,” I said. “From the movie of the same name.”

  Then she glowered. “Can’t you be serious?” she demanded.

  “No, I cannot,” I told her. “I am a frivolous scatterbrain. I want you to know that from the start.”

  “The start of what?”

  I shrugged. “Whatever may ensue from our delightful introduction. But if you desire a solemn, profound bloke, I am not he. If you can be satisfied with an ardent nincompoop I shall do my best to oblige.”

  She sat up, hugged her bare knees, regarded me gravely. “I don’t think you’re as dizzy as you say, Archy.” Then, suddenly: “What did you and mother talk about at lunch?”

  “This and that.”

  “I’ll bet you talked about money.”

  “The subject may have come up,” I acknowledged.

  “She wants to spend a mint on a stupid Fabergé egg,” she said wrathfully. “There goes my inheritance.”

  I grinned. “Selfish,” I said, “but honest. Are you acquainted with Frederick Clemens, her financial adviser?”

  “I’ve met the creep. I can’t stand oily men like him.”

  “Oily?”

  “You know what I mean. He puts oh the smoothy act and both mama and Helen think he’s God’s gift to women. I think he’s a fake.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “He insisted on buying one of my paintings. He said it was a masterpiece, which was a lot of hooey. He just wanted me on his side so I wouldn’t object to mama giving him money for the Fabergé egg.”

  “I gather from what you say that your sister-in-law is already on his side.”

  “Wait’ll my brother gets back,” she said. “He’s supposed to arrive this week. I’m going to tell Walter what his dear wifey has been up to.”

  “And what has she been up to?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  “Natalie,” I said, laughing, “I haven’t heard that expression since nursery school.”

  “I know what I know,” she said darkly, then abruptly switched gears on me. Very mercurial, our Nettie. “Do yo
u want to see me again, Archy?”

  It was a challenge and stopped me. Did I want to see her again? Well... yes. I knew I was risking Connie’s wrath if she learned I was playing ring-around-a-rosy with a certified ding-a-ling who performed aerobics in gym bloomers. But when lust comes in the door prudence goes out the window—or something like that.

  Also I sensed Natalie might prove a valuable source of skinny relating to the internal conflicts of the Westmore family. She had already revealed much and hinted at more. Surely I would be a fool to reject such assistance. But the specter of Ms. Garcia lurked, my very own avenging angel. And so I dithered.

  “I don’t mean to go out,” Natalie said. “I’m uncomfortable in restaurants and bars. I’m not a social creature. But I thought you might like to come by occasionally and we could just, you know... talk.”

  “I’d enjoy that,” I said at once, happy with her suggestion. Connie would never in a million years discover me engaged in extracurricular activities within a ramshackle shed on an Ocean Boulevard estate. “But I don’t want to be a nuisance. Suppose I give you my unlisted home phone number and when you feel like company give me a call and I’ll come running. How does that sound?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I think it’s the best way.”

  I had felt certain she would approve. It gave her control of our liaison, y’see—exactly what she wanted.

  I stood up (with some effort) and began dressing. “Then let’s do it that way. Why, we might even have a picnic in here. That would be fun.”

  “Fun?” she said, seemingly surprised by the word. “I’m not sure I know how to have fun.”

  “Yes, you do. You just proved it.”

  Her smile was a revelation. She positively beamed for one brief instant.

  I jotted my phone number on a scrap of discarded drawing paper. Then I leaned down to kiss her upturned face. “Thank you, Nettie,” I said. “Please, do give me a call when you’re in the mood.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I shall. What’s that cologne you’re wearing?”

  “Not cologne. Aftershave. ‘Obsession.’ Like it or hate it?”

  “Like it,” she said, and repeated “Obsession” as if it had a special meaning for her.

  I lifted a hand in farewell, unbolted the door, and stepped outside. I paused to light a cigarette and heard her close the inside bolt on her secret place.

  I was preparing to remount the Miata when a lavender Buick Riviera came purring up the driveway and halted in front of the garage. I waited until the driver alighted and slammed the door. She spotted me and came sauntering. Something insolent in her jouncy walk.

  “And who might you be?” she asked.

  “I might be Ludwig the Second, the Mad King of Bavaria,” I said. “But actually I am Archibald McNally. I have just lunched with Mrs. Edythe Westmore and have been given a tour of the premises by Natalie.”

  “Ah,” she said. “A new friend of the family?”

  “I hope to be. And I presume you are Mrs. Helen Westmore?”

  “You presume correctly,” she said with a smile so scintillant it made my Jumbocharmer look like a night-light. “But friends of the family call me Helen. And may I call you Archy?”

  “It would please me,” I assured her.

  But she wasn’t listening. She was staring at me, up and down, with a look I can only define as appraising. What a bold, almost brazen look it was! I feared she might step forward to examine my teeth and squeeze my biceps to judge their bulk.

  She was a zaftig woman who carried herself with impudent self-confidence. Her manner was more than forward, it was fast-forward, and I reckoned there were few pleasures she denied herself. Women who have a taste for instant gratification scare me. I always think of female arachnids who select an amorous mate, copulate, and then devour the poor chap.

  “I hope to see more of you, Archy,” she said, her voice almost a purr.

  “I’d like that,” I said. I may have stuttered.

  “Ta-ta, luv,” she caroled, gave me a wink and a flip of her hand, and danced up the steps into the house.

  I thought of those spiders again. I’m too young to die.

  CHAPTER 10

  IT WAS THEN PUSHING four o’clock, obviously too late to return to my orifice. (I wish I could stop spelling it that way.) So I tooled the Miata homeward, musing on my eventful afternoon with the Westmore women. They were not exactly the three witches from Macbeth but they were not the three Graces either. An odd and intriguing triumvirate I decided.

  When I was seated behind the spavined desk in my very own sitting room, shoes off and tie loosened, I remembered to phone Sydney Smythe at Windsor Antiques. We exchanged cordial greetings, and he then explained the reason for his original call.

  “You know, dear boy,” he said, “I have been thinking about the Fabergé egg you told me about—the one included in the estate of a deceased client.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “You wished to learn something of its provenance and current market value. I fear I was unable to provide much information, not having examined the egg. But I do possess several excellent illustrated volumes on the art of Peter Carl Fabergé. It occurred to me that if you would open the egg and describe to me the ‘surprise’ it contains, I might be able to identify it in one of my reference books and answer your questions in more detail.”

  “That would certainly be a help, sir,” I said, wondering where my fabricated story was leading me and how I could finesse the dealer’s request. “I’ll certainly open the egg at the first available opportunity and report to you what, if anything, I find inside.”

  “Excellent!” he said with more enthusiasm than I thought my reply warranted. “I love investigations into the history of beautiful antiques, and I’ve become quite consumed with curiosity about this particular Imperial egg. Do keep me informed, dear boy.”

  He rang off and I replaced my phone thoughtfully. His interest in the Fabergé egg I had invented did seem to me excessive but that wasn’t the only oddity I found fascinating. Mr. Smythe had asked me to describe the surprise in my egg, and a few hours previously I had asked Mrs. Westmore to describe the surprise in her egg.

  Of course mine was imaginary and I still had to determine if the Fabergé egg being hawked by investment adviser Frederick Clemens was also whole cloth or actually existed. And if it did exist, was it authentic or a counterfeit being peddled by one or more villains who had selected Mrs. Edythe Westmore as their mark?

  I noted these puzzles in my journal along with a description of the Westmore estate and Mrs. Edythe’s comments anent Frederick Clemens. I interrupted my scribbling a few times to phone Binky but was informed by the Duchess’s houseman that Master Watrous had not yet returned home. I thought it strange. I could not believe his meeting with Clemens was still in progress. Unless the goof was regaling the investment adviser with a recital of birdcalls, including the peep of a titmouse.

  I showered and changed into casual duds before descending for the family cocktail hour. As we were sipping our traditional dry martinis I casually mentioned I had lunched with Mrs. Edythe Westmore and had met both her daughter and daughter-in-law.

  “Did you, Archy?” mother said, much interested. “Tell me, what did you think of Helen Westmore?”

  I was glad she hadn’t asked my reaction to Natalie! “Why, I think Helen is a very attractive woman in a flamboyant sort of way.”

  “Flamboyant,” the mater repeated. “Yes, it’s a good word for her.”

  “Do you know anything of her antecedents, mother?”

  “Oh, it’s a very romantic story. She was on the stage, you know, and played a role in a road company that gave a week of shows at the little theater Edythe helps support. Walter Westmore saw her in one of the performances and fell head over heels in love. The road company moved on but Helen remained, staying with the Westmores. She and Walter were married about a month later. It was love at first sight.”

  “Apparently so,” I said. “Do you happ
en to recall the play Helen was in when Walter was smitten?”

  She thought a moment, head tilted. “I think it was The Odd Couple,” she said finally.

  I thought I heard a muffled snort from father but I may have been mistaken.

  Dinner that night was Brunswick stew, a tasty concoction that usually contains the meat of game animals—squirrel, raccoon, boar, venison, etc. Ursi Olson’s version had only chicken and rabbit but to give it a little zip she had added small dumplings spiced with cracked black pepper. They did the trick; the stew was ready to erupt.

  I climbed slowly back to my aerie after dinner, happy the meal had been more than adequate compensation for Mrs. Westmore’s insipid lunch. I collapsed at my desk and had a wee brandy to soothe my inflamed uvula. I phoned Binky Watrous again and this time the wannabe sleuthhound was home. I thought his greeting was giggled.

  “Binky, are you potted?” I demanded.

  “Not quite, old boy,” he said, his words slushy. “Still upright. Still vertical.”

  “But not for long,” I predicted. “What on earth prompted this disgraceful descent into blottoland?”

  “He took me to dinner.”

  “Who took you to dinner?”

  “Frederick Clemens.”

  “You josh.”

  “I do not josh. We were sitting around discussing heavy financial matters and Fred looked at his Rolex and said it was nearing time for a c-tail—that’s what he calls them: c-tails—and would I care to join him for a glass or two and a spot of dinner. Naturally I said I would be delighted and so we did. A funky little Italian place. I had brains.”

  “Too late,” I said.

  “With eggs,” he added. “Plus lots and lots of vino. It was a very jolly din-din.”

  “Binky,” I said desperately, “before you become totally unglued I am going to ask you a number of questions. Please try to be as concise and accurate as is possible for one in your benumbed condition. Primo, does Clemens work out of his home or does he have an office?”

  “Both. He inhabits this very posh condo—acres of space—and one big room is the office. Lots of glass, chrome, black wood. Elegant, y’know. Computer with all the bells and whistles. Three telephones on his desk: red, white, and blue.”