Free Black Jack Point by Jeff Abbott Page A

offhand shrug.
    ‘They’re very interesting.’
    Interesting
apparently didn’t cut it; she frowned. She sat on a paint-splattered stool and he settled on its twin across from her.
    ‘You’re probably wondering why I don’t paint the bay, with a wonderful view.’ Suzanne crossed her legs, dangled a black sandal
     off one alabaster foot.
    ‘No. But you want to tell me.’
    She gave a solemn smile.
’Everyone
here paints the bay. Every stupid little dabbler who can barely hold a brush between their fingers. And the required frisky
     gulls, little boats, swaying palms. Tiresome.’ She pointed at one small painting, framed in silver, a violent swirl of purple
     spirals, gray crosses, and white froth that looked like nothing more than idle slapping of paint by an angry child. ‘That’s
     the bay. My interpretation of it. No adorable dinghies, no fishing grannies, no endangered whooping cranes winging back to
     the refuge. The bay as it is. Hard. Cruel. Like life is.’
    He didn’t think she knew diddly about hard life in this grand house. Maybe he should have her call Linda Bird. ‘I’d like to
     know about your relationship with Patch.’
    ‘Are you asking as a judge or because Lucy’s said an unkind word or two?’
    Now that was interesting. ‘As a judge.’
    ‘I loved Patch. Who didn’t?’ She tucked her sandal back on her foot. ‘Artists live up to our stereotype now and then, get
     moody and mean when the work sucks. Patch always pulled me out of the blues, gave me a slap on the fanny when I needed it.’
     She spoke with the air of the artist, playing out each nuance until it wasn’t a nuance anymore. But he saw in the dusky light
     how brittle her eyes and mouth looked under the fresh makeup. She had cried and cried hard.
    ‘Did he ever help you in other ways? Say financially?’
    ‘You ask that like you know the answer already.’
    Whit shrugged.
    ‘You know, Lucy doesn’t make it easy to love her sometimes, does she? She does have a mouth.’ She lit a cigarette, a thin,
     ladylike coffin nail in a pink pack, then offered him one. He declined.
    ‘She told you garbage about me with great reluctance, right? Much wringing of hands? She got a vibe, right?’
    Whit said nothing.
    ‘Lucy was born with a finger pointing at someone else. Artists see patterns, honey, and I’ve seen plenty of this one.’
    ‘She said you asked Patch for a large loan.’
    ‘I was a little short on cash between paintings and asked Patch for help. He said no, I said fine, we were fine. He’s not
     a bank. I understood.’
    ‘You asked for a hundred thousand?’
    Her eyes went wide. ‘Good Lord, no. I asked for ten thousand. I got it from a friend. It’s being paid off, no problems.’ She
     tapped ashes into a crystal ashtray on the worktable, her mouth thinned. ‘A hundred thousand. She ought to use that imagination
     for noble causes.’
    ‘She said it’s what Patch told her.’
    ‘She’s dead wrong.’
    ‘She and Patch seemed to have a good relationship.’
    ‘Lucy likes people who have things and will give them to her. I’m not one of those people. Patch was. He doted on Lucy, just
     a bit too much.’
    ‘Can you think of anyone who’d want Patch or Thuy dead?’
    ‘He only dated widows, and he was successful at it. I could see he might make another man jealous. Thuy, Lord, no. Gentle
     and kind as a lamb. Retired teacher, loaded with patience. I adored her.’
    ‘You and Roy were here in town on Monday night.’
    ‘Yes. I already gave a statement to the police. We werehere, watched the news, turned in.’ She paused, tilted her head, gave him a melty smile. ‘We fucked. Twice. So we were awake
     until midnight or so. That’s not in the police statement but I don’t mind total honesty with you.’ Her smile shifted; his
     skin prickled.
    ‘In a bed or on the canvas?’
    The smile widened. ‘You have a good eye.’
    Yeah, it’s real tough to make out painted, squashed boobs.
He saw the