Death of an Artist Read Online Free PDF Page A

overflowing bag at Marnie, saying, “It’s for you.” A few days later Marnie would return it all and have Stef’s card credited. Stef was just as likely to head over to the valley, to Salem or Eugene, and prowl through thrift shops for hours and return with outlandish items, things she never looked at again. Or she might spend a day on the beach somewhere. But at ten in the morning, she was most likely to be in the studio.
    She was working on a painting she called Ladies in Waiting. Four women were strolling in the picture, one wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, one carrying a sun umbrella, all with long-sleeve blouses, fashionably arranged hair, the essence of turn-of-the-century primness and propriety from the waist up. Their skirts were diaphanous, transparent, revealing pregnancies in advanced stages. The bulging bellies were shocking in the setting of a genteel garden party. Two of the women were barefoot, their feet swollen and red, angry looking, their ankles like sausages. The other two wore misshapen sneakers without laces.
    Marnie hated the picture. It was a cruel mockery, a travesty. That morning she kept her gaze on her daughter, who was wearing a man’s oversize shirt, the one she always wore when she was working. It was badly stained and to all appearances had never been laundered. Stef didn’t glance Marnie’s way when she entered the studio.
    â€œI won’t keep you,” Marnie said. “I just wanted to ask when you decided to put your pictures up for sale, and if you intend to include Feathers and Ferns. ”
    Stef stopped a brushstroke in midair and, without turning toward Marnie, asked, “What pictures for sale? What are you talking about?”
    â€œVan said she dropped in at the gallery last week and they’re all for sale. She was surprised. And so am I.”
    Stef looked at her then for a moment without speaking. “Not just the charcoals?”
    â€œAll of them,” Marnie said.
    Stef’s face flamed red and her mouth tightened to a thin line. Savagely she flung her paintbrush across the studio and threw her palette to the floor. “That fucking asshole! That fuck of a dickhead!”
    Marnie had long since ceased being shocked by Stef’s cursing and her temper fits, but she still flinched in the face of it. She held up her hand, spoke, and was ignored. Cursing, Stef yanked off her shirt and flung it down with the palette. She wore nothing under it, and bare-breasted, she dashed from the studio, down the hall with Marnie following.
    The torrent of curses continued as Stef raced downstairs, through the house to the bedroom, where she grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it on. “I’ll show that motherfucker who owns that work! He thinks he can go behind my back like that, I’ll kill him. He’s dead meat!”
    â€œStef, for God’s sake, stop acting like a maniac! Calm down. Where are you going?”
    Stef had snatched up her purse and was pawing through it. She pulled out her car keys, and when Marnie tried to block her at the door, she pushed past her. “I’m going to get my paintings!” she cried.
    A minute later her car tires screamed as she roared out of the driveway. Marnie sank down into a chair and drew in a long, shuddering breath. After a few minutes she pulled herself upright and called Freddi Wordling at the For Arts Sake gallery.
    *   *   *
    â€œO H , DEAR G OD ,” Freddi said softly.
    â€œAmen,” Marnie said in total understanding. “Is Dale there?”
    â€œNo, and with any luck he won’t come in until after she’s been here and gone. Thanks, Marnie.” Freddi hung up and closed her eyes, praying that this would be one of the days that Dale chose to drive in late, stay a few minutes, and leave.
    Stef was icily calm when she entered through the back door. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded when Freddi stepped out from her