Who Are You? (9780307823533) (8 page)

“He’s been doped up and will be for a few more days, but he’s conscious. I haven’t forgotten what you asked me. When his doctor gives permission, I’ll take you to see Merson.”

“Thank you,” I answer.

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Wait,” I say, remembering the question I haven’t found an answer for. “I want to get everything straight. You said Mr. Merson was robbed and shot.”

“Right.”

“And the thief took his watch.”

“Yep. His wallet is missing, too.”

“Did the thief go into the house and take anything else?”

“Apparently not. The other occupant of the house reported that he had carefully checked all the rooms. Nothing seemed to be missing.”

“Why not? I mean, why wouldn’t the thief take the chance to pick up a few more valuable things?”

“What are you getting at, Kristi?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then don’t try. It’s our job to do the detective work. Okay?”

“Okay,” I answer, because right now I really don’t know what my question means.

Detective Balker says goodbye in his drawn-out drawl, and I hang up the phone.

I pull a Coke out of the refrigerator and gulp it down while I look under the listing for investigators in the yellow pages. I find
R. J. ZIGURSKI, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS
. Not a big ad. Not even a little ad. Just the last listing in a couple of columns of investigators. I jot down the number and the address, which is almost downtown on San Jacinto Street.

Mom and Dad will be home late, and I’m in charge of dinner. Poking my head into the pantry, I find exactly what I hope is there—a jar of spaghetti sauce and a one-pound package of spaghetti. Nothing in the world is faster to make than spaghetti, when the sauce comes ready-made in a jar. I check my watch. Ten after four. I’m supposed to have dinner ready no later than seven-thirty. If I leave now, I can get to Mr. Zigurski’s office before five o’clock. Just to make sure he’ll be there, I call his telephone number.

“Zigurski,” he says. The phone has an uneven sound, as though he’s talking from his car.

“This is Kristi Evans,” I tell him. “I can be at your office a little before five o’clock. Will you meet me there?”

He doesn’t act surprised to hear from me. His voice is low and flat, with a slight accent that’s not
Texan. “No,” he answers bluntly. “I’m on assignment.”

“But
I’m
your assignment.”

“Not anymore, you aren’t.”

“I was this afternoon. That was you in the car outside my school, wasn’t it?”

“Okay, so you made me. That’s ’cause you were lookin’ to be followed. There were plenty of times when you didn’t make me.” He sounds defensive, like a kid who goofed on a test.

I get right to the point. “Why did Douglas Merson want you to follow me and take my picture?”

“I dunno. I do what I’m paid to do. I don’t ask questions.”

“Weren’t you curious?”

“I’m not paid to be curious.”

“Didn’t Mr. Merson say
anything
to you about why he wanted pictures of me?”

For a moment loud static crackles against my ear. Then his voice slides back, flatter than ever. “No, and if he did, do you think I’d tell you?”

“I need to know.”

“Tough luck, kid,” Mr. Zigurski says, and ends our phone call.

Is Douglas Merson the only one who can tell me the reason for the folder? I can think of one other person who might know about it, since she seems to know Merson well—Ms. Chase.

I turn back to the A–L yellow pages. This time I search through the listing for art galleries, but there’s nothing called Chase Galleries. She spoke about
her
gallery. Is she an employee at one of the galleries? Or does she really own an art gallery?
From the expensive way she dressed and the car she drove, I’m guessing she’s an owner. But what is the gallery’s name?

There are more than six columns of listings in the yellow pages. I’ll see how many I can eliminate. I take a pencil and go down the columns, crossing out the galleries that don’t fit, like the Fine Toon Cartoon Art Gallery. I’ve been to that gallery, and I love it, but I can’t picture Ms. Chase there. There are galleries with small ads that state they specialize in framing prints and photos. I cross them out, along with the galleries with cutesy names. Ms. Chase is definitely elegant, not cutesy. Last, I cross out the galleries that carry the names of the owners. I’m betting on Ms. Chase being the owner.

I’m still left with a long list to call, so I sit down with the telephone and get to work. I don’t want to talk to Ms. Chase on the phone. She could put me off as easily as Mr. Zigurski did. So when someone answers my first call, I don’t ask to speak to Ms. Chase. I just say, “Could you please tell me if Ms. Chase works at this gallery?”

“No, she doesn’t. Sorry,” the voice says, and the person hangs up.

“Ms. Who?” the second voice asks.

But the woman on the phone at the third gallery says, “Are you looking for Alanna Chaser?”

“I think so. Tall, dark-haired, very attractive—” I begin.

The woman makes some kind of noise I can’t quite figure out—sort of a snort or grunt. “Alanna’s an owner of the Royal Heritage Gallery of Art,” she tells me.

Royal Heritage.
If Alanna named the gallery herself, I should have figured that one out. “Thank you,” I answer. “I appreciate your help.” Excitement swells like a bubble in my chest.

The Royal Heritage Gallery of Art is listed in the phone book. I circle the name and copy down its phone number and address. It’s on Westheimer, close to the Galleria. It won’t take me long to get there.

I check the garage, and Mom’s car is parked inside, just as I’d hoped. She and Dad have been keeping the same long hours, working hard to finish their clients’ income taxes on time, so they’ve been driving to their office together. I don’t bother to leave a note telling them where I’m going. I’ll get home long before they do. I take a small notebook and pen with me, just in case I need them.

When I arrive at the address I miss the drive and have to circle the block. I look for a gallery sign, and there isn’t one. Instead, there’s a tall office building. I manage to find a parking slot in the covered parking area behind the building and enter the lobby.

I find myself swimming in a vast pool of reflected light that shimmers over sea-green marble flooring and walls. A receptionist with long hair sits behind a low mahogany desk at a far end of the room. She’s the only human being in sight. With soft, piped-in music surrounding me, I walk to her desk and ask, “Where will I find the Royal Heritage Gallery of Art?”

“Seventeenth floor, suite seventeen hundred,” she tells me in a clipped Eastern accent.

“Thank you,” I say. At the elevator bank I punch a button to summon an elevator and am soon whisked to the seventeenth floor so fast that my ears pop.

I’ve gone from the sea to a sand dune. As I cross the lobby I sink to my ankles—well, maybe my toes—in a pale cream-colored carpet. It’s the thickest I’ve ever seen. Across from me three large white canvases, each surrounded with a thin line of color—one red, one green, and one blue—hang on the wall. The frames are expensive, but the art does nothing for me.

Only one door leads into this lobby. It’s a beautifully carved double door to my left. Fastened to it is a brass plate with the name of Ms. Chase’s gallery.

The door is closed. I try the handle, but it’s locked, so I knock.

A buzzer blasts over my head. It startles me so much that I jump. It sounds again. It must mean I can open the door, so once more I try the handle. This time it turns easily.

As I enter the room I gasp with surprise. The gallery consists of a series of rooms with stark white walls and dividers. The lighting is clear and bright, highlighting rows and rows of paintings. I’m surrounded by contemporary art, and in the room beyond I see soft landscapes that remind me of John Constable’s.

“Do you have an appointment?” a voice asks.

I quickly turn to see a thin, long-faced man standing next to me. Everything about him is thin,
from his nose to his hair. He’s escaped from an El Greco painting.

“I don’t have an appointment,” I answer, “but I’d like to see Ms. Chase, if I may. Just for a few minutes, please.”

“May I ask the nature of your business?” He’s very solemn and businesslike. He glances pointedly at my notebook.

I go along with the game and try to act every bit as dignified as he. There’s no point in making up an excuse, but I’m not sure how much of my story to tell him. I keep it brief. “My name is Kristin Evans. I would like to talk to Ms. Chase, please.”

“Ms. Chase is extremely busy. Suppose you talk to me.”

“No, really, I need to talk to Ms. Chase. It’s important.”

His mouth twists in a dry smile. “Let me guess. You wish Ms. Chase to speak to your art class. Or donate a small print to your school library’s silent auction.” He claps one hand to his face. “Oh, now I know. You wish to purchase a painting.”

I don’t like his sarcasm. I don’t like him. But I stay calm.

“I wish to speak to her about Mr. Douglas Merson.”

Both of his eyebrows rise slightly. Merson’s name certainly got his attention. “What about Douglas Merson?” he asks.

How do I get past this man? All I can do is tell the truth and hope he gives in. “Mr. Merson was shot Saturday night. Ms. Chase is a friend of his. I
just need to know something about Mr. Merson, and I hope she can tell me.”

He studies me for a moment. Then he relaxes, and I catch a look of mischievous humor in his eyes. “As if the media itself isn’t a problem, now they’re sending in the junior media,” he says. “Please wait here. I’ll convey your message to Ms. Chase.”

What’s so funny?
I wish I could ask him, but I don’t.

He walks toward the back of the gallery. I should have asked him if I could look around while I’m waiting, but I forgot. I try to catch up with him, but he doesn’t notice, and the soft carpet muffles my footsteps. I’m too late. He opens a door and walks through. It doesn’t completely close behind him.

A woman’s voice rises shrilly. “I just got off the phone. I was right, Landreth. They’re getting close, and he’s ready to cooperate, just as he threatened. Do you know what this will mean? He must be out of his mind.”

“We have a visitor,” I hear Landreth caution. In a low voice he says, “I told you, there’s no need to worry.”

Her voice drops and she answers, “He’ll plea-bargain. He’ll blame—” But I’ve already walked away. I hope she’ll talk to me.

I hurry to the main room, to see the paintings. The first is a mixture of swirls and bursts with a touch of cubism.
The Party
, it’s titled. It’s an interesting painting, and the artist must have had a great time at the party, but he doesn’t breathe the fire of Frank Kupka.

The next painting is an explosion of color radiating from the center. It reminds me of Boccioni’s
Dynamism of a Soccer Player
, but without the intensity and tremendous energy.
Lydia
, the painting is called.
Wow, Lydia! Did you ever make a great impression!
I think. I bend to read the artist’s name. Same artist. I haven’t heard of him, but that doesn’t mean anything.
You’re pretty good
, I tell him.
You’re on your way, but you need practice. Or maybe a soul. Lydia should have a soul. Did you look for it? You’ve left her soul out of this piece.

This is great fun. I’m not only a world-renowned art critic, I’m a gallery owner too. This is my very own gallery—The Heavens by Evans.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I live to encourage young artists. At my own great expense I send them to art school when their parents won’t. And I—

“Yes? You asked to see me?”

I turn and look into the carefully designed face of Alanna Chase. This time she’s actually seeing me. Her eyes are slightly narrowed as if she’s a little suspicious. Maybe I’m the first teenager to set foot in her gallery. I can see that she doesn’t remember me from yesterday. Lindy and I were totally unimportant to her so she mentally wiped us out.

“
You’re
Ms. Evans? You’re only a child,” she says. She doesn’t try to hide her irritation. She glances around, but the man who took my message to her is nowhere in sight. Now I know why he was smiling, but I don’t care. I’ve gotten my meeting.

“My name is Kristin Evans,” I say.

“So you told Landreth,” she snaps. My name hasn’t registered with her.

“I’m hoping that Mr. Merson told you about me.”

“Well, he didn’t,” she says. Then she cocks her head like a grackle studying a worm. “Why should he?”

“That’s what I was hoping you’d tell me,” I answer.

Ms. Chase’s lips tighten, and she looks at the gold and diamond watch on her left wrist. “I don’t have time to play silly guessing games. You have two minutes in which to tell me the purpose of your visit.”

I’d love to ask her about some of the paintings. I’d love to be able to walk through the gallery rooms and explore the art. Right now, I take a deep breath and say, “Please tell me what you know about Mr. Merson. What is he like? What does he do for a living? Why does he travel so often to Europe? Does he import art for your gallery?”

Ms. Chase holds up a hand—her rings glittering—and momentarily closes her eyes. “Stop!” she demands. “Who do you think you are, prying into someone’s life? Do you honestly expect me to confide details of Douglas’s life to you—not only a child, but a total stranger?”

There’s no use trying to explain, so I simply say, “He’s kept a folder of clippings and photos of me for sixteen years. I have to know why. Maybe I can find out by learning who Douglas Merson really is.”

Ms. Chase’s look becomes even more wary. She says, “Because of the contents of that alleged folder, I suppose you feel you have some sort of claim on Douglas.”

“A claim?” That’s a strange thing to say. “Oh, no,” I tell her. “I don’t even know Mr. Merson.”

“You and your parents have no idea why he kept this file on you—assuming you’re telling the truth and he did?”

“No. I’d hoped he could tell me.” I can’t help sighing. “His face was bandaged. I couldn’t even tell what he looked like.”