Read Online Harmony In Flesh and Black by Nicholas Kilmer - Free Book Online Page B

fan was right. The colors. Whistler could have executed such an image and called it Harmony in Flesh and Black. Lord knew Whistler could draw a woman when he wanted to.
    But Whistler liked in his finished paintings to brag, Anyone else, to accomplish all I have done, would have been obliged to invest five times as much paint. The picture of La Belle Conchita, by contrast, had been done with delicious abandon, luxuriance, almost profligacy, in the use of material.
    Still, it made a tempting story to go beside the one about Whistler’s mistress Jo, whom Whistler, in a gesture of fraternal comradeship, had delivered over to Courbet as a model. Also, Fred loved the title Harmony in Flesh and Black, so nearly right for a Whistler.
    But no, it wouldn’t work with Whistler as the painter. The props were right, but not the manner. Fred had come to the end of the alphabet. He looked at his watch. He had been over two hours. The young lady with the interest in pottery was still sleeping soundly. The little fellow with the bow tie had disappeared.
    Who, during the time in question, the 1880s, was exhibiting nudes that looked like the one Clayton had bought?
    That question took Fred to the illustrated catalogs of Salon exhibitions.
    *   *   *
    Fred called Clayton from the pay phone upstairs. Clay was on the point of leaving for Doolan’s, intending to collect Albert Finn on the way.
    â€œAmusing,” Clay said, “to think how we will tiptoe past each other, conversing and exchanging wisdom while I attempt to look at the Heade without showing interest and he tries not to be noticed noticing my pointed lack of interest.
    â€œThen there’s the Gardner. Finn must be watched there. You don’t think you and Molly could do me a tremendous favor and come after all? Your lady Molly can get anything she wants out of anybody, so we could aim her at Albert Finn.”
    Fred told Clay to forget it.
    â€œI suppose there are limits,” Clay said.
    *   *   *
    Fred left the library and walked past Turbridge Street, along Harvard, looking down at its usual quiet.
    Not reporting the ugly fact of Smykal’s murdered body had been a crime. But reporting the thing on the floor was not going to make Smykal any less dead. Fred could go in again now, have a more careful look, and then report the body—take some initiative to shake things loose.
    But no. Turbridge Street was a trap, nothing to mess with. He’d let that work according to its own logic. It took discipline to put the scent of murder, and its retinal impact, firmly enough to the side to determine the best course to follow. He had a life to lead with Molly and her children, and he would give a great deal to keep it free from the random, searching stain of death by violence.
    *   *   *
    Fred drove back to Arlington. Some of Saturday was left. Despite the pitfall waiting on Turbridge Street, the afternoon had cleared enough for baseball. Fred caught Terry as she was leaving for her Little League game. She looked pretty, with her thin brown hair matted and raspberry jam on the shirt of her orange uniform. On the days when she worked, Molly had to rely on the kids to fend for themselves and remember what their appointments were.
    â€œWait a minute. Put your bike away, and I’ll go with you,” Fred said.
    An afternoon of idyllic, nonessential conflict would be a good thing. He could watch Terry pitch—she was really quite good—and at the same time be well away from anywhere he was expected. They put Terry’s bike in the garage, and Fred drove her to the park and sat among the moms and dads watching the game get started.
    Fred would lie low this afternoon and tonight, while Clay was hobnobbing with his cohorts at the Gardner. Depending on how soon Smykal rose to the surface, he might even wait until Monday to talk with Clay again.
    Why shouldn’t Fred enjoy some aspect of a simple