Free Bones of Contention by Jeanne Matthews Page B

Margaret and Little Miss Hatchet Job, K.D., and took his place at the foot of the table opposite Cleon.
    Cleon said, “You fairly outdo yourself bein’ chivalrous, Wendell. We shoulda named him Lancelot, shouldn’t we, Maggie?”
    Lucien laughed and Cleon turned his mischievous eyes on him. “On the subject of names, I hear tell that in Da Vinci’s paintin’ of the Last Supper, nobody knows if it’s John or Mary at the right hand of Jesus.”
    Dinah couldn’t believe her ears. Cleon never dissed Lucien or anybody else for being gay. He had stood against bigotry of all kinds for as long as she’d known him. It was one of his most endearing qualities. Was he trying to provoke a fight?
    Lucien scowled. “Since when did you give a damn about art or religion?”
    “Don’t underestimate me, son. I could have a deathbed conversion.”
    “Lucien.” Neesha diverted his attention. “Is your poor leg simply excruciating? Eduardo says you’re back painting already. Tell me about it, do.”
    Seemingly relieved by the distraction, Lucien jockeyed his wheelchair closer to the table and started to regurgitate the Taipan myth.
    Dr. Fisher entered the room carrying a highball and looking deeply self-satisfied.
    He walked around the table and found his place on Dinah’s left. “You must be Dinah. Desmond Fisher. Call me Dez. Everybody does.” He gave off an effluvium of cigarette smoke and the Hemingway beard could have used a thorough wash and a trim. His Australian accent wasn’t nearly as broad as Jacko’s, but he had an irritating, staccato speaking style.
    “Nice to meet you, Dez.”
    “You don’t remember me, do you?”
    She acknowledged that she did not.
    “Wouldn’t expect you to. You were climbing trees and chasing a pair of wild kittens around the yard back then. I went hunting with your father once or twice.”
    “You knew my father?”
    “Crow Hill’s not the most luxurious place to carry out your uncle’s last wishes, but Big Brother prohibits suicide so we had to improvise.”
    “Right. I never knew my father hunted. When was this?”
    “Government nannies putting their beaks in everybody’s business, protecting us from ourselves. If we’re not careful, they’ll regulate what we can eat and drink. Can’t even lie in the sun without catching a scolding. And look how they’ve pared away the rights of smokers. You a smoker, Dinah?”
    “Once in a while. About my Dad, what can you…?”
    “Good girl. Don’t let the stickybeaks tell you what to do.”
    “You’ve drunk too many Scotches, Desmond.” Margaret’s voice was freighted with disapproval. “Don’t harangue the girl.”
    “And don’t you be a killjoy, Margaret. We’re here to give Cleon a rousing send-off, isn’t that right, Cleon?”
    “That’s the plan,” said Cleon. “Wouldn’t want anybody killin’ the joy.”
    Eduardo rolled his eyes.
    Lucien uttered a short laugh and resumed his conversation with Neesha. “Tell me about your plans for the gallery, Neesha.”
    “Well, it’s got a super location right on Peachtree Road near the Phipps Plaza and it’s just a fabulous space. Cleon’s already paid for the first year’s lease. I’ve got several pieces on consignment from a great Atlanta artist, Laura Mitchell. Do you know her? But I’d love for you and Eduardo to introduce me to some of your artist friends and acquire some good pieces. Of course, I’d be happy to hang your work. And would you help me pack the Homers for the return flight? I think I should buy extra insurance, don’t you. I simply couldn’t bear to lose them.”
    Dinah tried to steer the doctor back to the subject she was interested in. “You were telling me about my father, Doctor…Dez.”
    “Hart Pelerin?” He put away the last of his Scotch and looked around as if he needed a refill. “Yes, sorry to hear about his death. Untimely. Couldn’t have been much past forty. Young or old, we all die. Trouble is, people don’t accept the reality.