Tips for Living(67)
From the Pequod Courier
Obituaries, cont’d from page 11
Nora Glasser, on staff at the Courier, was Hugh Walker’s first wife and introduced the artist to this area. Both of the deceased moved to Pequod Point earlier this year. Hugh Walker’s brother, Tobias Walker of Lynchburg, VA, survives him. Helene Walker’s mother, Dinah Westing, and her sister, Margaret Westing, survive her. The Walkers’ daughter, Callie, survives both of them.
Chapter Sixteen
I was on a mission. I left WPQD for Reynolds Discount Electronics in Massamat. It was time to shop for a disposable phone, or “burner,” in crime-show lingo. I intended to call rental car agencies and try to find out whether Tobias booked a car last Saturday night. If he had, there would be mileage records. With any luck, if the rental car hadn’t been cleaned thoroughly, the police might still find traces of Pequod Point’s soil on the floor mats or tires. Or carpet fibers on the upholstery. Or even blood. Buying a cheap laptop would also be a good idea for checking e-mails and finishing “Canines for Heroes.” I’m no shirker. Despite everything that was going on, I’d fulfill my work obligations.
I thought of work, and a flicker of doubt returned about Ben. Had I done the right thing in pushing him away? In not giving him the opportunity to respond to my situation? I had to shake off this relentless self-questioning and refocus on the plan.
As I drove, I reviewed what Grace and I had discussed. There were two prime suspects now. Stokes had a strong motive, but so did Tobias. He was Cain to Hugh’s Abel. He had to be envious of his little brother. Hugh’s talent had brought millions, public adulation and a hot blonde. Tobias earned a modest teacher’s salary and lived with a frump. If Hugh had donated even one painting to his brother’s foundation, it would probably fetch more money than Tobias could hope to raise in his entire lifetime. Behind all the godliness and concern, Tobias must’ve harbored massive resentment. If Nathan Glasser were alive, he’d lay odds that Tobias had devised a way to kill the Walkers, blame me and enrich himself and his cause.
Grace and I hatched a plan. I’d already e-mailed Tobias from her computer accepting his invitation and requesting that he let Grace pay her respects. Bless Grace, she’d taken it on herself to make it less awkward for everyone at my wedding by giving Tobias and his wife some quality attention, so I doubted he’d refuse her. She’d approach him at the funeral as the caring mother she was and try to suss out his intentions regarding Callie. Grace had also suggested one more possibility.
“We can’t dismiss the idea that Hugh had a jealous lover. Along with pedophiles, cheaters have a high level of recidivism. There’s a chance that lover could show up at the funeral.”
“As a stranger, she’d draw too much attention,” I objected. “She would be foolish to risk gloating over her victims in person. And how would she find out about the service, anyway? Tobias isn’t advertising it.”
“What if she’s not a stranger? What if she’s one of the people Tobias invited? A friend.”
I contemplated this for a moment and someone came to mind.
“Sue Mickelson, the neighbor. She was the first at the scene after the housekeeper. She’s very attractive. I wonder . . .”
“I’m just saying we shouldn’t rule out that possibility.”
We agreed that if we uncovered any useful information, we’d tell Gubbins immediately.
By the time I paid for the phone and computer at Reynolds Electronics and returned to my car, Talk of the Townies was almost over. I’d missed the entire Abbas interview. Grace was finishing up with Davis Kimmerle of the New York Journal.
“And then there’s Walker’s brilliant self-portrait with his ex-wife as a distorted, half-bestial figure hovering over him as he sleeps. The portrait evokes both the raw and the sophisticated. It’s contemporary yet grounded in classical traditions across many cultures. This is why Hugh Walker will remain profoundly influential. In fact, he has single-handedly paved the way for a revisioning of neo-primitivism.”
“That’s fascinating, Davis. Your understanding of Walker’s vision is very impressive,” Grace said. “You really have to write a book.”
“Thank you. I admit, I’ve been thinking about doing just that.”
“Oh, you must. Fantastic. Promise me you’ll come on the show to talk about it when the book comes out.”
“I’m there.”
“Again, thank you for speaking with us today and explaining the significance of Walker’s paintings so eloquently. Now that he’s gone, it’s so sad we won’t be able to see more of his work and hear your take on it.”
“A shame, I know. But you will be able to see a number of his previously unexhibited paintings soon. I’d be happy to come back on the show and talk about them.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The Abbas Masout Gallery had already planned a comprehensive retrospective for this spring before any of this . . . Oh God, I’m sorry, Grace. I just betrayed a confidence. It’s not public knowledge yet. Can you edit that out?”
“I’m afraid this is a live show, Davis.”
That’s exactly what I meant about Grace eliciting information. It seemed to work with everyone.