A Cast-Off Coven by juliet blackwell Page A

was the same as the first: He was almost cadaver-like in appearance; not ugly, just . . . odd. Still, he looked better in his paint-splattered smock than he had in last night’s ill-fitting jacket; more at home.
    The studio was large and airy, with white dust covering much of the floor. There were sculptures in varying states, male and female nudes, some nearly finished, others barely more than blocks of marble with a few gouges in them. A few were covered with drop cloths, giving them humanoid, vaguely threatening shapes.
    In the center of the room was a circle of easels ringed around a raised platform, ready for a painting seminar. Along one side of the room sat canvases of varying sizes featuring somber compositions of black and gray streaks on a white background, or white and black streaks on a gray background, or gray and white streaks on a black background. I was sensing a theme.
    In another corner of the room were canvases of a completely different style. These were figurative, full of rich oil colors that reminded me of the Pre-Raphaelites. These paintings were in varying states of completion with a single unifying theme: A spiral staircase of stone steps led into a tormented sea, and a naked young woman who looked a lot like Andromeda stood bound on the bottom stair, menaced at the water’s edge.
    I stopped and studied one particularly large canvas on the wall. It was Andromeda, all right, right down to the hint of a dimple on one cheek. Her face showed the anxiety of the waiting, the horror of knowing that your father has willingly sacrificed you to the monster.
    “Do you like it?” asked Walker from right behind me.
    “I . . . um . . .” I’m not great at lying, even little white social lies. “It’s well done, but it’s a bit . . .”
    “Disturbing? It’s supposed to be.”
    “Oh. Why?”
    “Art isn’t only about beauty, you know. It’s about making people see what they can’t necessarily see with their own eyes.”
    He was right about one thing: The painting made me feel something more than just a simple response to a fabricated scene.
    “Is that your work as well?” I asked, pointing toward the black, gray, and white canvases.
    “My old stuff. But it seems so tedious now. I’ve been working like crazy lately, going in a whole new direction,” Walker said, a feverish look in his eye. “It’s so exciting; it feels like a blur when I paint it. I’m so absorbed in the work, I hardly notice the time going by.”
    “What does Andromeda think of it?”
    “Andi? She poses for me when she can. Her story—actually the story of her name—inspires me. Do you know the myth?”
    “I do, yes.” I nodded, turning away from the disturbing paintings. I wasn’t sure I was up for a long monologue about Walker Landau’s artistic process. “Andromeda seems to be a popular model. Luc mentioned using her for a sculpture, as well.”
    “Who are you, again?” Walker asked.
    “I’m Lily Ivory,” I said, realizing I hadn’t introduced myself. I held out my hand to shake, but he held up his paint-spattered one and declined. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about Jerry Becker. Did you know him well?”
    “As well as anyone, I guess,” Landau said as he began cleaning his brushes in mineral spirits, then wiping them with a rag that used to be a white T-shirt. “He wasn’t the kind to let people get close. But when his daughter enrolled here, he started coming around more often. He was very supportive of my painting.”
    As Landau spoke, I concentrated, not so much on his words as on his aura. His vibrations were sincere, but confused. My mind flashed on those sociopaths who can fool lie detectors because they genuinely don’t feel guilt, or shame, or other emotions that make us healthy human beings. But Landau was no sociopath; just a nerdy artist wrapped up in himself and his art.
    “Yes, I was with Jerry right before . . . before he was killed, but so were a lot of other people.”