Death of an Artist Read Online Free PDF Page B

suitcase. “Honey,” she drawled, “maybe the scarecrow doesn’t like being pushed around. And I sure as hell don’t. Now, why don’t you run along and let me get on with my packing.”
    He took a step toward her, his fists balled, and she laughed. “Baby, don’t even think about it. I have insurance, honey. Four big, strong guys who’d slice and dice you into so many little pieces they’d never reassemble the package.”
    He wanted to strangle her, but he knew the guys. Growing up in Newark, he had seen enough guys like that to know what they would do to a blond white man who messed up their woman. He had even worked with guys like that when it suited his purposes and theirs. He well knew what they would do, and she was their woman, their singer. Then he thought, Insurance! That was it, insurance.
    He turned toward the door, where he paused and said, “Jasmine, sweetheart, have you noticed the lines at your eyes? Botox time, sweetheart. And your tits are hanging a little low, don’t you think? See you around.” He smiled maliciously as she stopped moving.
    *   *   *
    I T WAS A torturous afternoon, one that stretched minute by laborious minute. At five-thirty Marnie closed the shop. She went to the market and bought two thick steaks, a nice bottle of wine, and lettuce. She knew that Stef would have eaten nothing and would, in all likelihood, be home drinking with no thought of food for the rest of the night.
    To her surprise, when Marnie entered the driveway at home, she saw the gallery van parked near the entrance of the rear house. She went straight to the house and let herself in without knocking. Just inside the door on both sides of the entryway the paintings were leaning against the walls along with the charcoal studies and sketches. Stef had cleaned out the gallery of all her work. She was sitting near the window, her back to the room. She didn’t move or speak when Marnie said hello. On the counter separating the dining area from the kitchen was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Marnie set her grocery bag down on the counter and took off her jacket, then joined Stef at the window.
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œSure. Got them. Safe and sound where they belong.”
    Stef held a glass of bourbon and water, too dark to have much water in it. Marnie could tell from her voice that it was not her first such drink.
    â€œI made Freddi give me the key. I would have killed her with my bare hands if she’d tried to stop me.”
    Talking about the van, Marnie guessed, and nodded. “In a few minutes I’ll make us some dinner. Have you eaten anything today?”
    Stef shrugged. “Why didn’t Van tell me herself? Why you?”
    â€œI suppose she thought you knew about it.”
    Stef shook her head. “Why does Josh always stay at your place when they come home?”
    â€œWell, you know how crazy he is about Tipper,” Marnie said, suppressing a groan. Stef was going to get maudlin, go into her self-pity mode.
    â€œThey hate me,” Stef said in a low voice. “Dale, Van, Josh, you. No one in town will even speak to me. They all look somewhere else when they see me coming. I don’t blame them. Or Van either. Poor little Josh, even poor little Josh.” She looked at Marnie then, her eyes red rimmed. “I’m his grandmother, not you. You always do that, take my place, elbow me out.”
    â€œStef, don’t torment yourself this way. You know we all love you. You’re my child, I’ve always loved you and always will. I’ll fix dinner and you’ll feel better with some food in your stomach. Wait and see.” Marnie stood and took a step toward the kitchen, but at that moment Dale came into the room.
    â€œHello, Dale,” Marnie said, more in warning to Stef than in greeting. At the sound of his name Stef twisted around in her chair, instantly aflame again.
    â€œYou!