Richard Jury: The Stargazey Part 24

It was fortunate he'd directed this comment to Wiggins, who, indeed, probably could imagine. Jury couldn't. "I wonder, Mr. Fabricant"-Jury had turned to Sebastian-"if I might have a word with you?" He wanted the same word with the rest of them, but individually.

Sebastian led him into the office, a smallish room that housed another computer and the fax machine, a desk, and two slick-looking Eames chairs opposite the leather swivel chair in which Sebastian sat down.

"Do you know a woman named Nancy Pastis?" He saw that Sebastian was at least appearing to think this over, and perhaps (thought Jury) he really was. Jury didn't quite trust him.

"No. No, I can't say I do." Sebastian looked at his watch. "Sorry. I don't mean to cut you short; it's just that I'm expecting a client about now."

"Don't worry, you won't cut me short," Jury said, ambiguously. "But it's Monday. You're not open on Mondays."

Sebastian's pause was marginal and the blush faint, but just long enough and just red enough to suggest the "client" might be a fiction. Then he said, "Appointments I take if I have to. This one's a good client."

Jury went on. "Nancy Pastis lives in Curzon Street and has a wall full of paintings. I'd be surprised if she hadn't been into your gallery, given she lives so close to it."

"She might well have; I don't see everyone who comes in here and probably wouldn't remember them unless we'd sold them something. Who is this person? Why are you interested?"

"Let's just say that I am." Jury smiled. "You keep a record of sales, don't you? And a mailing list?"

"Yes, of course. But-"

"Look."

Sebastian pulled over one of the two Rolodexes sitting atop his desk. He thumbed through it, shook his head. "No one by that name." He looked up at Jury. "This is the mailing list; we try to put anyone on the mailing list who purchases from us."

"Sales? What about that record?"

It was clear Sebastian wasn't pleased to have to rise and drag down a heavy ledger from a shelf. He sat down again and opened the ledger. "Look, I can hardly go over this entire list. It goes back for fifteen years." He inclined his head toward the shelf and the other ledgers there.

"If the ledger you have there is this year's, let's start with that."

Sebastian sighed. "But it'll take time."

"I could take the ledgers with me." Jury smiled. Tantamount to producing a search warrant, at least in implication.

Seb shook his head. "I'll start at the end and take the latest purchase first."

Jury nodded, watched him run his finger down one page, turn, do it on another; he was one of those people who silently mouthed the words he was reading.

"Ah. You're right, Mr. Jury. Nancy Pastis . . . here it is. St. Ives. This was back in February. February twenty-ninth."

Jury asked, "Is this a very small painting, framed in ash?"

Seb thought for a moment. "Yes. Quite small. Of St. Ives."

"That's in Cornwall." Jury smiled. "It looks more like a port in Paradise."

"Does this help you?"

"Yes, but more if you recalled waiting on her."

He tapped the page. "This is my brother's writing. Both of us make entries. Do you want to ask him?"

"Yes." Jury rose and followed Sebastian down a narrow hall to a room at the rear which was very large and well lighted.

"We had skylights put in," said Seb, who asked Nicholas about the Pastis sale.

Nicholas gave this some frowning thought. "I like to think I remember everyone who's ever bought from us." He smiled ruefully. "But I can't. I remember the painting, certainly. But not the patron. Sorry."

"Maybe I could jog your memory. Do you recall the photo I showed you at your house?" Jury had drawn one of the police photographs from the inside pocket of his raincoat.

"This isn't that murdered woman? The one you found in Fulham Palace?"

Jury said, "Yes."

"Good lord. Yes, I guess I did see her. If I'd seen the photo in this context the first time, maybe I'd have-" He looked apologetic. "It's possible she came in before she bought the painting. Probable, I should say. People don't ordinarily buy the first time around. They want to think about a painting. I just don't recall seeing her at another time, that's all."

"How did she pay? Check or plastic?"

"Cash, I think. Oh, it wasn't all that much. Five hundred pounds. People have put down cash in much greater amounts than that."

Jury handed Nicholas one of his cards. "If you think of anything else about her, would you get in touch?"

Nicholas nodded. "Certainly."

"Thanks for your trouble. I'll go look up my sergeant. He appeared to be fascinated by Mr. Rees's paintings."

"Everyone is," said Sebastian. "We're trying to decide what to put up on that wall and how best to display the remaining two. We've sold three, now."

Wiggins was actually seated in a wooden chair supplied him by Ralph, and both of them were studying the snow series; Ralph had lined up the ones he'd taken down so that there would be an uninterrupted progression. At least, that's what Jury supposed. What in heaven's name did Wiggins see in all this? Wiggins was a no-nonsense type when dealing with anything outside of his little world of allergies and anodynes.

Jury said to Ralph, "You've sold some of the series, then?"

"Yes, and I'm thrilled. These two"-he indicated the ones propped against the wall-"to an American. And one last week to a British peer."

Jury glanced at Wiggins, who, with a crimped little smile, was bending over to study G.o.d-only-knew-what at the bottom of one of the paintings. Jury said, "A peer? Well, you know the aristocracy. Always have to be first off the bat with . . . things."

But Ralph interpreted the comment in his favor. "I'm extremely encouraged by all this attention."

Ralph's smile was so candid, so ingenuous, Jury felt a stab of sorrow, even of shame, that he'd come so close to insulting his work. The poor chap must really believe in what he was doing. "He'll probably be back."

"Who?"

"Your British aristocrat. They're never satisfied with just one of anything, not if there's more to be had. I know one who drives a Rolls and a Bentley."

Ralph looked doubtful. "He didn't say."

Jury smiled. "Trust me."

30.

Melrose Plant was making his way to the desk to settle his bill on Tuesday before lunch and was still debating the least unsavory mode of transport back to Long Piddleton. Trueblood had left several days before, saying he had to get back to his business.

There was the train to Sidbury and then to Long Piddleton by cab, or he could give Diane Demorney a ring and ask her to collect him at the Sidbury station. She was so often in the offices of the Sidbury Star these days that it wouldn't inconvenience her. Diane appeared to enjoy performing minor acts of mercy for Melrose, as he was, after all, eligible, rich, and even-the highest virtue in the Demorney canon-"amusing." She had finished with her fourth husband years before and was getting bored with being on her own.

It struck Melrose that Diane was the polar opposite of someone such as Simeon Pitt, for she was unable to find her own company tolerable; whereas Pitt found little tolerable in others' company and could amuse himself endlessly on his own.

Because of her lack of inward resources, Melrose was surprised that she was finding the content for her column exclusively within herself. She certainly wasn't finding it in the zodiac. She couldn't be bothered to do research. Perhaps Diane was a more layered person than he had given her credit for. He considered this on his way to the telephone. Well, at least as layered as the jam on yesterday's jam roll.

In the Members' Room he saw the usual fleet of faces-not faces, actually, but newspapers and the hands holding them, the legs stretched out from under them, elbows, feet, ankles. The Members' Room was more a collection of body parts than bodies. There was Neame behind his Daily Mirror; there were Pitt's highly polished shoes jutting from the wing chair whose back was to Melrose. It saddened him to think of saying good-bye.

When Diane's bored yet mellifluous voice came over the line, Melrose said, "Diane! Listen, be a sport and collect me at the Sidbury train station, will you? I'll take the three o'clock so I'll get in just in time to buy you a drink." That should do it!

"Train? Good G.o.d, Melrose! What happened to your Bentley?" If he'd announced a ten-car collision, she couldn't have been more appalled. Public transportation was intended only for the needy-that is, the non-Bentley, non-Roller crowd. She herself had two.

"Diane, you seem to have forgotten: Trueblood drove me to London last week. We used his van, remember? So will you pick me up?" He heard what sounded like papers crackling in his ear. "What're you doing?"

"Melrose, I've just realized you've missed your horoscopes."

Horoscopes? How many had there been?

"I'll read this to you."

"Please don't bother."

"Oh, but it's no bother at all. Now let me just find . . . Capricorn, Capricorn. . . . "

He was sorry he'd furnished her with his date of birth.

She read: "Charm will get you nowhere in this mess. Although you are used to sailing through any difficulty, you will find you're up against a stronger adversary than even you can put down."

"What in heaven's name are you predicting?"

Her sigh would have leveled a field of poppies. "Mel-rose. Why can't you understand your Fate lies in the pattern of the stars? I can't tell you what's going to happen." She continued. "Since you are generally self-sufficient, you are subject to egocentrism and-"

"Egowhat?"

"Cen-trism. It means you're altogether too pleased with yourself. Don't take it personally. It's Capricorns in general, and that's not your fault, is it?

"As the moon transits Venus, you will find old friendships are the best." She paused, then said, "I'll just fix this next bit: Pack up and go home. And above everything, Watch out!"

Since she fairly yelled this, Melrose nearly fell off his seat. Then he thought for a moment the line had gone dead until he heard the crackling of what might have been cellophane, topped off by a bark and a voice shouting.

"Just getting out a fresh cig. Sorry."

"Diane, I called your house. Did you get a dog?"

"No. I'm at the Star offices, of course. I've got a deadline."

"But the number I dialed was your house."

"I have call forwarding. And don't forget my pager, if you ever need to get in touch with me quickly. Didn't I give you the number?" She read it off.

Melrose wasn't going to bother jotting it down, but then he did. It might be good for a few laughs. He recapped his pen.

"Incidentally, Melrose, why have you been in London a whole week?" Her voice was a little whiny, as if his absence were a slap in the face.

"No special reason. Going to Harrods, doing one or two things for Richard Jury."

"Ah, Richard Jury!"

Talk about eligible, thought Melrose. But unmoneyed, unt.i.tled, uncountrified.

Another brief pause while she did something. "He's a Leo."

"He is? How do you know?"

"Marshall told me. Marshall knows everything."

"We're talking about the same Marshall, are we?"

"I should send Richard a copy of this week's Star. What's his address?"

"Scotland Yard, as always."

"What street's it in?"

"I'm not sure the street is absolutely essential, but I think it's in Victoria Street."

"Um." Silence. Probably writing it down. "Now, to continue with Capricorn," she said.

Ye G.o.ds, he might as well fire up a cigarette himself.

"Let's see, we were at the warning. Here: If you aren't careful you might find yourself encountering something dire."

"That's a rather gloomy old forecast, isn't it?"

"If you think Capricorn's bad, you should see Jupiter. Well, I'm off. Deadline. Ta-ta."

Melrose replaced the receiver, shook his head to clear it, and wandered back to the Members' Room, nearly colliding with a heavyset woman with two silver-handled canes who stared down her nose at him as if she were a victim of road rage. She was used to getting the right-of-way, obviously, and Melrose stood aside, extended an arm, and bowed slightly to usher her out of the room. He remembered then it was Tuesday, Ladies' Day. He hoped this woman wasn't Pitt's relation. No, that was a niece, wasn't it?

They were still in place, Neame dropping his Mirror long enough to see Melrose and wave. Melrose smiled and nodded and walked over to the wing chair on the other side of Simeon Pitt's. With the arts section resting against his chest, Simeon Pitt was having one of his catnaps. Well, he'd soon wake up. Melrose signaled Young Higgins, who bobbed over as if a strong wind were at his back.

"Coffee, please, Higgins." Melrose noted the cup on the table beside Pitt. "And might as well bring enough for Mr. Pitt, too."