Free Paint by Magic by Kathryn Reiss Page B

actually," said the man, reaching over and ripping the sheet for March right off. He balled it up and tossed it toward an overflowing tin wastebasket in the corner. "Always forget to change the dang thing."
    Nineteen twenty-six, nineteen twenty-six.
The number kept repeating in my head.
    I heard footsteps tapping up the stairs somewhere nearby. The door to the studio opened and an elderly woman stood there with a smile on her face and a dish towel in her hands.
    "Hello, dear," she said in a surprised voice when she saw me. "Now, when did you come to call?"
    "He just seems to have dropped in," replied the artist. "Chum of Homer's, no doubt. I wish you'd keep the children downstairs, Mother. How am I going to work with these disturbances?"
    "I'm sorry, Fitz, dear," she replied. "But I see his appearance gave you something new to sketch. So that's good, isn't it?"
    "I try to sketch whatever's to hand," he muttered. "Might as well. Now take him downstairs, would you?"
    "Why don't you come down, too, dear? We're having lemonade on the porch." Then she turned to me. "I'm Mrs. Cotton. My grandchildren and I are down on the porch, and you're very welcome to join us—"
    Cotton
? Like that guy in Mom's art book? I turned to the man. "Are ... are you that painter? I mean, Fitzgerald Cotton?" My voice sounded weird. I tried again in a firmer voice. "I mean, you're the famous artist?"
    "'Famous?'" He looked gratified. "At your service, lad. And always in need of people to sit for me, even if they don't knock before coming in. I do portraits mostly."
    I was still trying to understand what seemed to be happening here. "You mean—" It couldn't be so, but I had to ask it, anyway.... "You mean, you're the painter in the art book? The one with the muse?"
    In a flash the seemingly mild man turned into a raging tiger. He lunged, toppling me back down onto the floor. "WHO TOLD YOU ABOUT THAT?" he roared. His eyes blazed down into mine with a fiery intensity. "WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT HER?"
    I struggled to get him off me, but he was much stronger. He pinned my arms above my head with one big hand. The other hand grabbed the neck of my T-shirt. I thought he was going to hit me—or strangle me.
    "Fitzy!" I heard his mother shout over the roar in my head.
    "Tell me, young scoundrel, before I thrash it out of you!" the man yelled at me. "What do you know of her? Where is she? Where is my Pamela? TELL ME!" His voice rose with every word until he was shouting the house down. "TELL ME OR I'LL THROTTLE YOU!"
    He knows Mom's name?
I thought in terrified amazement as I kicked him hard in the leg and heard him grunt with pain. But he didn't let me go. Then the woman, waving the dish towel over her head like a lasso, pushed herself between us.
    "Fitzgerald!" she yelled. "Stop it this instant! My goodness gracious, what has gotten into you?" She pulled him away from me. Shakily I got to my feet. The maniac stood meekly aside as if he'd never done anything wrong in his whole life.
    "Sorry, Mother," he said humbly. "I guess I just lost my temper."
    "I guess so!" exclaimed the woman, dusting me off with her dish towel. "Now, are you all right, lad?"
    "Not really," I said haltingly.
He knows Mom's name. He knows Mom's name!
    "He should be thoroughly ashamed of himself."
    "I am ashamed, Mother. Indeed I am," said her son meekly. "The lad just—surprised me." Fitzgerald Cotton's words came out in a rush. "I thought he might know something about her. Or at least about a missing sketch of mine. One that is very dear to me. It's the one I did of Pamela—"
    "I'm sure he wouldn't take any of your sketches," said Mrs. Cotton. "Would you, lad?" she asked me.
    I shook my head. I was feeling dizzy again.
    "Just a misunderstanding, then," the artist answered quickly in a mild, friendly voice. But the look he shot me was anything but mild or friendly. It was full of menace.
    "He seems to be a good lad," continued Cotton in the same fake voice. "Just moved in