She knew her studio intimately. The first thing she noticed was the canvas on the table. Frowning, she walked over. It was the St. Lawrence canvas, and she knew she hadn’t put it on the table; she had left it on the easel. A chill went through her. Who had moved the canvas, and when? Another canvas stood in its place now, and Sweeney stared at it for a moment, strangely uneasy, before walking around the easel to see what it was.
She went very still, blue eyes wide as she stared at the canvas. Her lips were white, her fingers clenched on the coffee cup.
It was ugly. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen. A man sprawled in the dirty, garbage-filled space between two buildings. She knew exactly what she was looking at, even though the buildings were nothing more than black hulks on either side that somehow gave the appearance of height. Something was wrong with the man’s head. There was a little blood pooled around his nostrils, and a thin line of it ran from his left ear, curving under the ear to drip into his gray hair.
For a moment she stared at the painted face without recognition. The eyes were open, blank, glazed with the film of death. But then she saw the facial structure she knew so well, having sketched it so often.
It was the old hot dog vendor.
Her first irrational thought, rushing through her brain on a flood of rage, was that someone had broken into her apartment and painted the disturbing picture. Logic pointed out the idiocy of that scenario. For one thing, the style, though not as detailed as usual, was her own. That, and her signature scribbled in the lower right corner of the canvas, told her she had done the painting.
The only problem was, she didn’t remember any of it.
CHAPTER FOUR
At nine, the telephone rang. Sweeney was still numb with shock, and so cold she couldn’t seem to get warm no matter how much coffee she drank. She’d kept edging the thermostat upward until it was sitting on eighty, and she refused to turn it higher. The local weather forecast, delivered by a woman so chirpy Sweeney felt like smacking her, had told her the day would be beautiful, with highs in the mid-seventies. People outside were walking around in short sleeves, children were still wearing shorts, and she was freezing. She felt as if her inner core was pure ice, the cold coming from inside rather than out.
She couldn’t settle down to paint anything, not even something unsatisfactory. Every time she saw that ugly painting of the old hot dog vendor, she wanted to weep, and she wasn’t a leaky-eye type of woman. But she felt so sad, almost as if she were in mourning, and when the phone rang, she grabbed it up, glad for a change, for the distraction.
“Candra here. Is this a good time?” Candra’s warm voice sounded in her ear.
“As good as any.” Sweeney pushed an unruly curl out of her eyes. “About yesterday—”
“Don’t apologize,” Candra interrupted, laughing. “I should be apologizing to you. If I had stopped to think, I would have known immediately you wouldn’t be able to stand them. A little of Margo goes a long way, though in her defense, Carson is enough to give a saint a bad attitude.”
“He has the hots for you.” Damn, she hadn’t meant to say that. She liked Candra, but they had never crossed the line between friendly business associates and friends. Intimate conversation wasn’t her strong point, anyway.
Candra evidently had no such hang-ups. She laughed dismissively. “Carson has the hots for anything female. To say he’s like a dog would insult the dog community. He has his uses, though, which is why Margo stays with him.”
Sweeney didn’t say anything, because she knew anything that came out of her mouth would be uncomplimentary, and the McMillans were not only in Candra’s social circle, they were her clients. Insulting them wouldn’t be diplomatic. Keeping silent was a strain, but she managed.
“I saw you get in the car with Richard yesterday,” Candra said after a slight pause, and there was a faint hesitancy in her tone.
Oh, boy. Sweeney’s radar began beeping an alarm. “It was starting to rain and I had the portfolio, so he gave me a lift home.” She clutched the phone, hoping Candra would leave it there and go on to another subject.
No such luck. “He can be very courteous. It’s that country-boy Virginia upbringing.”
“I didn’t know he was from Virginia.” That seemed like a safe thing to say.
“He still has the accent. No matter how I begged, he absolutely refused to have speech lessons to help him get rid of it.”
Sweeney didn’t think she had ever noticed his accent, though now that she thought about it, his speech did have a certain lazy quality about it. Virginia wasn’t exactly the Deep South, though Candra made it sound as if Richard talked like the Beverly Hillbillies. Sweeney didn’t want to talk about him; just thinking about him made her uncomfortable. She especially didn’t want to talk about him with his soon-to-be ex-wife.
“You know we’re getting divorced,” Candra said casually. “It’s a mutual decision. Richard and I had been drifting apart for some time, and shortly after you moved to the city last year, we separated and filed for divorce. He’s being a bastard about the settlement, but I suppose that’s to be expected. A divorce isn’t exactly a friendly proceeding, is it?”
“Not usually.” Maybe if her responses gave Candra no encouragement, the other woman would tire of the subject and move on.
“Ah . . . did Richard say anything yesterday?”
The hesitancy was back in Candra’s tone. Sweeney got the feeling this was the real reason behind the call. “About what?” She actually managed to sound blank. She was proud of herself, and irritated at the same time. She had no reason to feel guilty, because even though Richard had asked her to dinner, she had turned him down, but evidently logic had nothing to do with guilt.