From the editor

Hand colored
photographs
by Boyd Nichols

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Why would anyone
buy such a
painting?

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Would anyone buy such a painting?

Chapter 1 - continued

The customer was an old man, who looked extremely healthy. He had a beautiful and silent companion - he told Markla that she was deaf. Markla smiled at her and she smiled back. Her teeth were slightly crooked and she was at least 6'2", and his height was about equal. He had a calm, self-contained air. He had come in, pointed at the painting and said he wanted it wrapped, and that he would pay now and pick it up the following day. He didn't trust the mail, he told Markla. The beautiful young woman pointed at the jewelry case. He nodded his approbation and she selected some earrings of abalone and three necklaces of woven copper with malachite and azurite beads. Markla advised her to take good care of them, because they were soft. She talked slowly, with her face tilted upwards so the woman could read her lips. The woman smiled again. Then she pulled a small suede drawstring bag out of her purse. She wrapped the jewelry in soft cloths like the kind for cleaning glasses. The man paid with cash. Markla wished she could show me a thousand dollar bill but she had already deposited them. She and her employees went to the golf course for lunch that day and then to Naco for Mexican popsicles. She gave dollars to all the children who asked for them, and bought groceries for her friends the employees. It was the kind of grand splurge Marla loved. I was sorry I had missed it.

The next few days had been slow and Markla had lots of time to wonder why the man did not return for the painting. She was familiar with people promising to return to buy something and not doing so, and people purchasing things with money they really didn't have, but never before had she seen someone spend so much money and not return for the purchase. She was sure he was very wealthy.

Whatever the reason, now it was Friday the 13th of June and she was eager to have it out of her shop. She didn't like it sitting, covered, in the backroom like that. And then she started telling me why. She spoke of the pictures she saw, rhapsodized about the meanings, marveled at the power of paint to reveal the imaginings of an astonishing mind. How could paint, in the form of crying children and thunderclouds, and a host of mutating beasties explain so deftly the flaws of our leaders and the tragedies of our times? Markla asked me that, but I had no answer. I begged her to unwrap the painting so I could hazard an informed guess, but she refused. She'd wrapped it perfectly, she said, and she didn't want to see it again until it was in a museum. Already that day someone else had asked after the painting and she had said it was sold. She wanted me to take it away and find the owner. She said she knew I could do it, because of the affair of The Purple Dog.

She snagged me there. I had a moment of pure vanity. I remembered how I'd solved the case of the break-in the night before, and I had more happiness in that than The Purple Dog. I felt in full command of the power of deduction, and so I agreed.

My consent was also won by the offer of money on her end and a conjecture of it on his.

But how to find him? I didn't know any new detective tricks. Most of the mysteries I had read were written at least 50 years ago. Would they be staying at the most expensive hotel or bed and breakfast in town? I doubted they had left town yet. Could I call all the hotels and ask them their prices? No, too much work.
There had been no credit card receipt, and so no name. But Markla's descriptions had been detailed. Surely there could be no other pair like them in town. I could describe them to hotel clerks, but that would be too much work anyway, and besides, what if the clerk at the right hotel decided to mess with me, or felt it was against his ethics to reveal to me the truth? No, no.

Think about it a different way, my mind whispered to me.

I attempted to think about the descriptions more realistically, tried to imagine the features Markla had mentioned knit together to form real human beings. I began to see them I could see her beautiful face, listening dispassionately, as he complained with sour face of something that had displeased him. His demeanor seemed different than the one Markla had described. I saw the shine of light on her dark hair as they sat on the verandah at the Copper Queen. I could see them and their location perfectly!

Of course, dummy, you saw them last night. My brain felt as if it were pricked, and I resolved on avoiding vanity in the future.

I didn't know quite what to do but I knew it had to be done at the Copper Queen. If the desk clerk wouldn't help me I would sit in the lobby until they showed up. They had to show up sometime. He didn't sound like the type of man my employer is.

The clerk looked sullen for some time before asking if she could help.

"Yes, er," I pointed to the wrapped artwork, "I'm supposed to deliver this painting to a guest of yours. But I forgot his name and I don't want to walk back to the Markla Morninglory gallery to find out. It's hot." I prayed she wouldn't offer me the telephone.

Instead she said, "Yeah, yeah," as if she'd heard the story before. "I'll call and tell him you're here."

Moments later I was astonished to seem him coming towards me from the direction of the back hallway. To my knowledge there were no guest rooms back there, just the bar, a conference room, maybe storage, some bathrooms... Where had the clerk telephoned him? I had no time to ponder this further; we were about to meet.
The man looked much more cheerful than he had the night before. He held his hand out to me and said, "Delighted." The flesh was soft but the grip was firm. With eyes of Newman blue he looked into mine and smiled a cold smile.

"My name's Milton Marlesque," he said.

"My name is Lydia Lozenge," I replied. "I've brought the painting."

"I am much obliged to you. May I request that you carry the painting to my room for me? You can meet my wife and have a drink of something, and of course a token of our gratitude as well. You can have no idea how valuable that painting is to us and how we regretted being unable to pick it up sooner."

As he spoke he led me towards the back hallway. When we were at a spot where no one else could see us, he asked me in a lower voice, "Do you mind going into our room blind? The Queen has been kind enough to let us have the secret chambers since our room was robbed night before last, but they request we keep its whereabouts undisclosed."

Secret chambers deep in the heart of a hotel! How could I pass up a chance to experience that? I let him blindfold me; I sensed no menace. Besides, though I was blindfolded I knew exactly where he led me - to the end of the hallway where the wall is bare rock. I reached out to feel its cool, rough surface, remembering how it had intrigued me as a child.

He slapped my hand. He said, "Don't do that."

"Excuse me, mister."

"Now I will spin you." He spun me like my friends used to do with blind man's bluff, until I lost my sense of direction.

"Now crouch," he ordered, and I heard as he did so, and then there was a click and a blast of cool air to my left.

"Waddle a few yards and then you can stand up," he said.

My heart thrilled with the adventure as we made our way slowly through what felt like a tunnel with an occasional offshoot. Eventually he opened a door and we stepped into a warmer room. I was given permission to untie my blindfold.

"Excuse me for a moment," said Marlesque, and he and the painting exited through a door further in.

I didn't notice the details of the room so much - save the peeling off-white paint and the mediocre paintings on the wall and the odor of mineral earth and hummus - because my eyes were instantly captivated by the beauty of the woman sitting at the small table playing solitaire. She was the same woman I had seen on the verandah, but I had not before fully appreciated her unique beauty. Her skin was a rich and smooth brown, and her green eyes were each the same size and almond shape as the other, under eyebrows that were slender with a slight arch. Her hair was long with a kink, hanging over her shoulder in a casual braid.

I signed the word, "Hello," to her, hoping I remembered it correctly from the ASL class I'd taken years before. Then I signed, "My name is Lydia, how do you do?"

She watched these movements with no corresponding flutter of her long slender fingers (their nails painted iridescent, showing the perfect half-moons beneath), but she smiled sweetly at me with her large full mouth, showing slightly crooked white teeth. I felt as if I'd never seen anyone so clearly before.

Marlesque returned to the room as we were smiling at each other. "Lydia Lozenge, meet Brittany India Arabia Marlesque."

"Ah, you are the detective," she stated with a slight, unrecognizable accent. She surprised me very much. "You can call me Bia."

"But...." I did not want to be rude, but I had to ask it. "I thought you were deaf and mute?"

She laughed, and turned her eyes back to her game.

"We thought it would be better for people to think so," explained Marlesque. "So they don't think she's a terrorist."

"In Bisbee?" I asked in astonishment.

"In general." He responded placidly, as if the wisdom of their extraordinary deception was obvious. "Besides, she has no patience for conversation. We expect that you will be discreet about our little secret. Detectives tend to keep these things to themselves."

"But I'm not a detective."

"Come now, Lydia, we know all about the case of The Purple Dog." He looked me in the eyes, smiling coldly, and raised his left eyebrow.

"Well, that was mostly luck," I told him. "And I haven't wanted to be a detective since I found out such work tends to involve murders. How could you have heard about that? It wasn't in the newspapers."

His eyebrow lowered and he glanced about the room as if he were growing bored with the conversation. I followed his eyes to a stack of magazines on a coffee table in the corner of the room. On the cover of the topmost one was a huge gray-haired head, looking from that distance like Einstein.

"There was something mentioned in the Bisbee Marquee," he said. "And then I looked into it. Not from any particular interest in you, mind you, but because I am interested in all aspects of Bisbee." He paused dramatically. "I plan to retire here." He looked me in the eyes again, as if to ascertain my reaction.

I shrugged: it didn't matter to me one way or the other.

"He wants to be the mayor," commented Bia, without lifting her eyes from her game. Then she laughed briefly, a deep short rumble.

"A simple wish," he rejoined. "An old man wishing to share his wisdom and incorruptibility with a town that could use it."

"All his friends have their towns picked out, too," said Bia, and then she bit her lip.

"Brittany, that's enough." He glared at her.

"I've seen you before," I said, changing the subject for him. I hate to witness a lovers' squabble. "Last night. You looked upset about something."

"Me?" He thought about it a moment. I began to feel awkward, standing by the table. There was an old couch by the wall opposite, but I hadn't been asked to sit down and I didn't know how long I'd be there. Marlesque, too, was still standing, rigidly straight, yet seeming to be at his ease. "Ah yes," he said. "I was upset about the food in this town. I had expected better."

"Have you been to the Roka?"

"Today we found the Co-Op," he said.

"And he is happy again," she murmured to her cards.

"At any rate," he said, waving it all away with his left hand, on which was a gold nugget ring, "we were glad to meet you, and perhaps we will meet again. I have a little task that could be right up your alley." He reached into his breast pocket and held out a fifty-dollar bill.

I didn't take it, though my brain started spinning uses for it. "Like I said, I'm not a detective."

"Take it, Lydia, it's for the painting," he said.

I took it. "To tell the truth, Mr. Marlesque, the one mystery I'm concerned with is why anyone would buy that painting."

She laughed again, a longer rumble.

"Understand, Lydia, I have no aesthetic judgment in the matter. I'm just a simple businessman. Let me show you."

He walked to the coffee table and brought back the topmost magazine. It was called Investments for the Future, and What to Watch out for (Guaranteed). In the way of magazines, time travel, it was the August 2003 issue. The cover photo was of the man who had held the door open for me at Circle K, and the text read, "David, best bet of the century."

"Gee whiz," I said, shaking my head. "My judgment was way off. May I see the painting again?"

"No you may not. It will not be unwrapped until it reaches my Preserver."

"Damn," I said.

"At least the mystery is cleared up to a certain degree," he attempted to console me.

Brittany spoke again, "Milton, it's 4:30."

"So, it is. My dear Lydia, I beg leave to show you out."

I nodded my acquiescence.

"And I have one last favor to beg of you." The way he said the word beg implied, both times, that he did not know its meaning. "Please give my regards to your employer. I hope to be able to visit him at some point."

"My employer?"

"Yes, didn't he write the book Corporate Frequency Broadcasting to the World?"

"He did."

"Please give him my regards."

"Certainly."

The whole subterranean visit had a distinct feeling of unreality, once I was outside in the heat of the June day, with the noise of the highway in my ears, and the familiar symbols of Bisbee all around me. B mountain looked big and orange-red, adolescents were insulting each other, pigeons were swooping from the Y to the Presbyterian Church, stray cats were darting into hiding... the air had a smell of gasoline and cancer trees, and the sun on my skin felt invigorating. The day was a jumble in my head and I was unsuccessful in turning it to coherency.

The door was unlocked at my house and Mort and Batmuffin were waiting for me on the couch.

Batmuffin languidly waved his tail and Mort greeted me with, "Lydia, where've you been? I couldn't get your swamp cooler to work."

"I've been trying to solve a mystery," I told him.

"You?" He laughed. Mort knows better than anyone how much the case of the Blue Dog was due to luck. "Your brilliant mind deducting?"

"Shut up." I sat down in the velvet armchair (more cat hair than velvet at this point). "I prefer to solve through intuition."

"Yeah, okay, to me that means you forget the clues but they're still floating in your subconscious, and some sort of higher power fits them together for you and then you experience a flash of insight."

"Whatever. I figured out that you bathed Batmuffin in my claw foot tub last night."

"Not exactly. I threw him in there because he was being disobedient."

"Oh."

"Why don't you tell me what happened so I can find the clues for you?"

"I don't have much time. I have to go to work soon. I'll tell you the short version." And so I did.

The part that bothered Mort the most: "How come they were expecting you at the Queen?" he asked. "That's the real mystery."

"I don't know, but I gotta go."

My employer was standing at the window I had looked down upon Bisbee from the night before. He had his hands clasped and resting on his large rump. "Lydia," he said, "at last." He didn't turn from the window.

"Wait until you hear what happened to me today."

He ignored that. "I've been thinking about the Starbucks in the Copper Queen," he said "Isn't there a city ordinance against such things? Here I've been investigating Corporations in the country at large, and I've failed to turn my discerning eye on Bisbee itself."

"There isn't one," I told him. "But there's something stranger."

"This is good news."

"Yes, an ugly painting, a subterranean passage, a mysterious business man and a deaf woman who is not really deaf, and...."

"Please, Lydia, please." He looked at me and sighed. Then he rubbed a furrow in his forehead. "You are making my brain ache."

And then he assigned me the task of writing it all down, for him to read and edit. The reason I am employed by him and perform strange tasks for him, is that I have faith in his writing skills, and he says I have some talent that could be cultivated. So I have spent most of the night setting this down (I can't wait to see his reactions when he reads the parts featuring him, and when he gets to the part where Marlesque sent his regards). I share it with you as well as him. Though my main question was solved by the businessman's cold interest in art, in writing I have found more questions; yet what bothers me the most is that nothing in the events justifies the feeling I experienced so intensely in the parking lot of Circle K. That means that the series of events is not yet over.

To be continued.

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