A Most Unpleasant Picture Read online

  A Most Unpleasant Picture

  Judith Alguire

  Doug Whiteway, Editor

  © 2016, Judith Alguire

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by Doowah Design.

  Photo of Judith Alguire by Taylor Studios, Kingston.

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Alguire, Judith, author

  A most unpleasant picture / Judith Alguire.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-927426-95-1 (paperback).--ISBN 978-1-927426-96-8 (epub)

  I. Title.

  PS8551.L477M675 2016 C813’.54 C2016-904956-6

  C2016-904957-4

  Signature Editions

  P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon, Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7

  www.signature-editions.com

  To my kid sister, Carrie, who has put up with me — most of the time — for sixty years

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Several years before

  Luella Pryce, a wealthy older lady and art collector, although not much of a connoisseur, is speaking to her friend Leonard Anderson about a proposed acquisition.

  “Are you sure those examples of Cartwright will be a good acquisition, Leonard?”

  He gave her a grave look. “If you don’t buy them, Luella, I’m certain someone will snap them up.”

  She wavered. “Oh, dear, we can’t have that.”

  Leonard waited patiently.

  “You say it would be quite a coup to acquire these.”

  He controlled the impulse to scream. “All I can tell you, Luella, is that in years to come, as these are compared to his later works, they will stand in very good stead.” He paused. “And the pencil sketches are included.”

  “Oh, I don’t like those at all. They look like something a four-year-old did. If we get the oils, you can have the drawings.”

  He smiled. “Thank you, Luella.”

  She frowned at the paintings. “They seem a little primitive. They don’t have that finished look of some of his later works.”

  He seized the moment. “And that is why you want these. Cartwright painted these in the full bloom of his creativity. Then he became popular.” He shook his head, gave her a sad look. “I can’t tell you what popularity does to the creative process.”

  She flicked him a glance that said he should.

  “Some artists start painting what they think the public wants. They no longer paint for that most important audience of one.”

  Leonard waited for her to say one what?, gritting his teeth to control his tedium. He was fond of Luella. The old lady had been generous to him in so many ways. His main problem was usually gently spurning her coquetry, giving her the impression women just weren’t his cup of tea, something she seemed to accept and not mind at all. It did put a crimp in his romantic life. But then art was his main passion. He satisfied his other needs discreetly. She usually accepted his judgments about paintings — at least about the investment value — without question. The problem here was that the pieces were small, barely ten by ten inches. Luella tended toward the large. He sometimes thought she chose painting like pieces of cake, something else she was rather fond of. Mostly she liked him and liked having him around. Her arm candy, she liked to call him.

  He leaned forward, pointed over her shoulder. “Look at the fearlessness of the brush strokes. These are the work of an artist pouring his heart onto the canvas.” He straightened. “Frankly, I find much of his later work…studied.”

  That was the magic word. She knew how he hated anything “studied.” She nodded, gave him a sweet smile over her shoulder. “You know what’s best, Leonard.”

  He smiled back, nodded diffidently. “It’s my vocation, Luella.”

  “You’re so smitten with them, Leonard, I’m surprised you didn’t try to acquire them for yourself.”

  He raised his brows. “That would hardly be ethical, Luella. I was acting as your agent.” Not to mention, he thought, that I expect you’ll will the entire collection to me by and by.

  She patted him on the arm, letting her hand linger. “The price is rather high.”

  “Not as high as it will be later.”

  “I guess that’s true of everything.”

  He waited. Luella could be ridiculously cheap about things. Her house was full of treasures, yet she refused to get a proper alarm system, relying on an aged poodle that spent its days in a doghouse on the front lawn to raise the alarm. Her dogs were usually deaf. The house, although elegant, was dusty and ill kempt. She refused to have household staff, apart from an elderly cleaning lady who came in once a week, and a cook who prepared a week’s worth of meals and delivered them frozen. She smoked like a chimney, something that made him cringe when he thought of her art collection. She was mostly interested in her clubs, lawn bowling, lawn tennis, croquet, which she played with malice, her patronage of the local art gallery, and her women’s reading group, which she loved to preside over, boring everyone by reciting Tennyson badly.

  “You will make sure they are properly authenticated,” she said.

  “Of course.” As always, he did a second examination.

  “Will they require cleaning?”

  “They are in excellent condition,” he said.

  They would need cleaning many times over the years, he knew, if she continued to cover them with tar from her unfiltered Pall Malls. The thought made him wince. Although her collection was good, he had never developed an emotional attachment to most of the works. But these, the Cartwrights, were exquisite. They tugged at his artistic heart in a way no other painting had done in a very long time. The vibrancy of the colours, the finely controlled impetuosity of the brush strokes. It was as if the painter were driving a team of spirited horses along a narrow cliff road and barely managing to control them. What a shame Cartwright had lost that.

  “You should consider getting a proper alarm system,” he said finally.

  She gave him an indulgent look. “Pepi will look after that.”

  Pepi, the latest poodle, was so old all of his teeth had fallen out. Leonard thought the only weapon at the dog’s disposal was the foul-smelling gas he passed with disturbing regularity.

  “Besides,”
Luella continued, “who could possibly sell my paintings on the island without everybody knowing about it?” She lowered her voice. “I practically own the chief of police.”

  The chief of police is easily owned, he thought.

  “So that’s it,” she said. “Shall we stop at the club for a drink to celebrate?”

  It wasn’t a question but an edict. Another thing Luella was rather fond of was her liquor.

  “And how is that nephew of yours? What’s his name? Tigan? Timson?”

  “Tibor,” he responded. “Tibor is fine.”

  “You’re doing a good job with him, Leonard.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He wasn’t doing anything with him, really, apart from providing him with a stimulating environment. But, at least, he was there. Tibor hadn’t been left in the care of strangers while his parents gadded about, more interested in their society friends.

  “It’s not easy taking in an orphan,” she said. “Especially one whose parents have died so violently. Airplane accident, wasn’t it? Engine failure?”

  “So they say,” he murmured.

  The Pleasant Inn, around the same time

  Trevor Rudley headed toward the front door with a tub of mortar. Margaret accosted him as he passed the front desk.

  “Rudley, where are you going with that?”

  “To repair the base of the urn,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t you get a professional to do that?” she asked.

  “Nonsense. It’s a simple do-it-yourself job.”

  If he does it himself, it will be far from simple, she thought.

  “Why don’t you get Mr. MacAvoy in?”

  He crossed his eyes. “Margaret, he’s the one who backed his truck into it in the first place.”

  “He didn’t mean to.”

  “But he did.” He ran a distracted hand through his hair. “He’s as much of a nuisance as that brother of his. How could one family produce a catastrophic handyman and an irritating laundryman?”

  “I don’t know, Rudley.” She paused. “I think we should consider getting a full-time repairman around here.”

  “Nonsense, Margaret, why would we need one of those? I can repair that urn to last a millennium.” With that he went on out the door.

  She watched him go. I believe he’s getting a bald spot at the back of his head, she mused.

  A few years later

  Leonard locked himself into his studio and stared at the paintings in front of him. The subterfuge had started with his desire to keep a solicitous eye on the Cartwrights and ensure they remained in good condition. Then he decided the fate of the paintings would be best served if they remained with him. To what harm? Luella wouldn’t know one painting from another. She was drinking more and her vision was getting worse. Not to mention the fact that, once Luella had acquired something, she paid little attention to it. That’s how it started, at least. But, as he studied the paintings over and over, he came to the conclusion that the best way to ensure the safety of those vibrant colours and fluid lines was to copy them. He set out surreptitiously. He had always envied painters. He had entered art school with the dream of becoming one of the great masters, but the comments he had received from his mentors hinted — rather strongly — that his work was stiff and derivative. That it showed no creativity. They put it in a nicer way, of course: “Leonard, we believe you would derive more satisfaction and serve the art world better if you were to become a critic, an appraiser, a restorer.” Anything, it seemed, but a creator.

  He had followed their advice as a young man because he believed it to be true. He studied extensively and, over time, built a solid reputation as a critic, restorer and appraiser. For a long time, this life satisfied him. He got to hobnob with people with money and influence, and, in some way, could feel superior to the creators themselves. That changed when he began to spend extensive time with the Cartwrights, when he decided to protect them. After considerable trial and error making copies, he knew he had done it. He smiled as he studied his reproductions. They were equal to the best of the Cartwrights, those small, beautiful pieces that had sprung from the painter’s freest and most heartfelt period. He had become Charles Cartwright.

  He therefore felt no shame when he simply kept the originals and returned his copies to Luella. She barely looked at them except to say: “Wonderful job, Leonard.” He suspected she would have said that if he had sprayed a mixture of bug juice and coonshit over them.

  He stored the originals in a safe in his office. The combination he kept in his head. Tibor had grown into a rather cold, sullen, secretive young man and he did not trust him.

  Leonard thought he was somewhat to blame for Tibor’s lack of emotional development. He had attempted to cultivate his intellectual side without making an effort to probe deeper into Tibor’s soul. He considered this in a theoretical way as he couldn’t recall his parents probing his soul. He had to credit Sylvia, his long-time mistress, for nurturing his emotional side. He had no idea how to do the same for Tibor, especially as he grew older. One thing he had discerned about the young man was that he was like a shark in a sea of chum when he perceived weakness. Therefore, he tried to remain warm and interested and friendly without giving Tibor too much insight into his thoughts. Tibor had just one friend, a handsome but rather insecure young man named Bobby Frankes. Frankes had an abysmal education and he was poor. He had emigrated from England to St. Napoli in the British Virgin Islands when he was still a child to live with his grandfather who died when Frankes was fourteen. He was a good number two to Tibor.

  None of this caused Leonard too many sleepless nights. Tibor would eventually strike out on his own, he believed, and, in the end, the situation with the Cartwrights would be resolved. Luella had hinted on many occasions that, on her demise, her art collection would be willed to him. Problem solved. He did not think she could last much longer given her lousy health habits. Not that he wished her ill. He was fond of her. But her death would tie up loose ends.

  Margaret Rudley shook her head at the argument coming from down the hall. Rudley and the latest repair person were now engaged in a dispute about the upkeep of the baseboards. After another flurry of unpleasantries, Margaret heard a heavy tool hit what she hoped was the floor, and the latest repair person storm out. After a few minutes, Rudley appeared.

  “Damn man,” Rudley said. “He couldn’t cut a board straight if his life depended on it.”

  “So you’ve fired him too.”

  “I did not fire him, Margaret. He quit.” He set his jaw. “The man does not have the capacity for intellectual discussion.”

  Margaret shook her head. What Rudley needed was someone who would listen to what he had to say, then go about doing the job the way it should be done. She knew this worked. She had used this approach for years. She thought of the young man who worked at the feed store, how he was always smiling, never seemed phased by anything. Perhaps…

  Although Leonard continued his routine — winter in St. Napoli, autumn in Europe, spring in England (he really did buy into the Browning thing), and, rarely in later years, summers in Canada — the Cartwrights were never far from his mind. He lived well, spent unwisely, and indulged Tibor financially to make up for a lack of emotional attention. Tibor did poorly in school once he reached his teenage years. His teachers described him as unmotivated; his tutors described him as sensitive and introspective, which Leonard took to mean cold and truculent. None of this bothered Leonard much. He was not emotionally invested in Tibor’s success and knew that, with the money he had tucked away, he could guarantee his nephew at least a respectable living. He did not begrudge doing so. Tibor was generally well behaved and not too difficult to be around, probably because he knew what a will was and how easily it could be revoked.

  There was someone in his life now, too, who brought him cheer and touched his emotional chords as no one had in a long time. Sylvia’s daughter, Cerise.
She had been ten years old when he first met her. A charming child, bright as a new penny, inquisitive. Also a bit of a charlatan. He often mused, fondly, that she would make a first-rate con artist. When Cerise was fifteen, Sylvia married a wealthy man who vacationed in St. Napoli and returned to Italy with him. He missed her; he missed Cerise more. Cerise had been sullen about moving to Italy. He was, therefore, not surprised when she showed up at his door a year later to announce she had had it with the villa outside of Florence — something to do with all of the old nuns at the religious school her parents had chosen for her — and was moving in with him. He contacted her mother in Italy and found she was quite comfortable with the arrangement, provided Cerise spent her summer vacations in Florence. Her mother agreed to send a stipend monthly to cover her expenses and stipulated that, when she turned eighteen, she would be on her own, unless she agreed to come home. And so, without the slightest effort on his own, he liked to say, he had acquired a family.

  In the meantime, he courted Luella assiduously. She was quite old now, deafer, drinking and smoking more. Her cats had died, something that did not bode well for the general condition of her house since rodents were now free to roam. More than one housekeeper had given up trying to keep things respectable and instead settled for a biweekly shovelling out. Luella did continue with her clubs, though. She was president of most of them, after all.

  Then came the day. Leonard had gone to Luella’s for tea as he often did afternoons, making his way up the hill from his house, a short five-minute walk away. They were sipping something called Madagascar Bomb and nibbling on lemon biscuits when Luella dropped another bomb.

  “I’ve been thinking about the art collection lately,” she said. “And I’ve come to a decision I think will please you.”