“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“All night?”
“Yes.”
“Did you maybe step out for some fresh air, a walk before bedtime, anything like that?”
“No. I didn’t leave the apartment.”
Ritenour rubbed his nose. “Did you make any calls, talk to anyone?”
“No.”
“Have you ever been to Mrs. Worth’s apartment?”
“No. I don’t know exactly where she lived.”
“Did you have any contact with Mrs. Worth after the scene a few days ago? Since she was so upset, did she call you afterwards and maybe make a couple of threats, you know, the way people do when affairs of the heart are concerned?”
His phraseology was charming. She lost herself in a moment of bemusement at hearing a cop actually say “affairs of the heart.” Then she shook herself. “No. That was the last time I either saw her or heard from her.”
“Do you have any knowledge of someone, say, holding a grudge against Mrs. Worth?”
Only Richard, she started to say. Thank God he had cleared himself. “No. Candra and I were business associates, not friends. But I liked her,” she said softly, looking down. “Until that scene the other day, I had never seen her be anything but polite and friendly to everyone.”
They both smiled at her. “That’s all the questions I have,” Detective Aquino said, closing his little notebook. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Sweeney.”
“You’re welcome.” She went with them to the door.
As they started to leave, Aquino stopped and turned back. “Are you planning on going out of town, Ms. Sweeney? In case we have more questions.”
“No,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
As soon as they were gone, Sweeney picked up the phone to call Richard, then put it down without dialing. There was no point in worrying him with this. The detectives had asked a few questions; that was all. Granted, she had no way of proving she hadn’t left the apartment all night, but neither had she ever been in Candra’s apartment, so there couldn’t be any evidence tying her in any way to the murder. She had nothing to worry about.
* * *
Despite her best intentions to stay out of the studio, after lunch and laundry she began to think about the painting. She hadn’t really examined it yesterday, looking at it only long enough to recognize Candra. She didn’t want to look at it again, and yet she knew she must. She had to finish it. The cops didn’t seem to have any solid leads, or they wouldn’t have been questioning her, so unless she finished the painting, the killer would probably get away with the murder.
The other day—two days ago? three?—she had worked on the painting while awake. If she could do that again, the shock to her system wouldn’t be as severe and the chill wouldn’t be as bad. She didn’t want to go through a repeat of yesterday morning, even though she now knew she could get through it on her own.
When she went into the studio, though, she couldn’t bring herself to walk right up to the painting. She wandered around looking at other works in progress, other things she had done, recalling what had been difficult or fascinating about each subject. For her, looking at her work was what looking at a photo album was to other people, calling up memories of times past.
But eventually she came to the unfinished painting, and she stopped cold, struck by the stark power of the work. The terror of Candra’s last minutes seemed to leap off the canvas, as well as the nothingness of death. And there was menace as well, in the stance of the man standing over her, a sort of gloating satisfaction that was sickening.
She stared at the blank space where the man’s face would be, and she felt a sort of floating sensation, faint but detectable. Her vision seemed to narrow, her focus tightening on the canvas.
The ringing of the doorbell was a jarring intrusion, making her jump. She lost the focus, the growing sense of seeing something that wasn’t yet there. Muttering to herself, she went to the door.
Her unexpected visitor was Kai, his arms loaded with wrapped canvases. “Hi,” he said when Sweeney opened the door. “I brought these by. The framer tried to deliver them to the gallery, but of course it isn’t open, so he called me. Candra told me to send them back to you, but I thought, what the hell, why not bring them to you myself? Who knows if or when the gallery will open again.”
He looked at her as if expecting her to tell him Richard’s plans for the gallery, but since she had no idea, she merely shrugged.
“In here,” she said, leading the way to the studio.
“By the way, the last of your old work sold.”
“That’s good.” She cleared some space where she could stand the canvases against the wall. “Put them here.”
He did as she directed, looking around at the other things she had completed. “Hey, these are really great. You’re gonna make a fortune; wait and see.”
“I hope,” she said, smiling at him.
“The light is great in here.” He walked over to the huge windows and looked out at the street below. Then he turned, and saw the painting.
All color leached out of his face. He stared at it, mouth agape, eyes blank with shock. “My God,” he blurted.
“Don’t tell anyone.” Uncomfortable, she shifted her feet, unable to look him in the eye.
“When did you—You did all this in a day and a half?”
She cringed inside, but she had to come up with some reasonable explanation for the painting, and she couldn’t think of one. “No, I’ve been working on it several days.”