Cutwork by Monica Ferris Page A

talked with the boy the police have arrested, and his parents, but I’m not certain whether or not there’s anything I want to do, or even can do.”
    “I see,” said Ian, but not as if he really did. “This is kind of awkward. Ms. Potter seemed very sure you’d want to interview me.”
    “Well, since you’re here, you might give me a new perspective by telling me about Mr. McFey.”
    “I’d be glad to. Robbie was a good friend.”
    “Did you see him at his booth at the fair?”
    Ian nodded. “On Saturday. I came by to see how he was doing. He seemed happy, said he’d been selling pretty well. He liked the setup in Excelsior, said the park was a pleasant venue, so it attracted lots of people.”
    “How long had you known him?”
    Ian calculated, his eyes cast upward. “Six, going on seven years.”
    “Did you meet because of your mutual interest in art?”
    Ian grinned. “No, we met because I didn’t know the difference between advertising and publicity. He used to own Information Please, and I’d been told by my agent that I needed a publicist, so I made an appointment for lunch with Robbie. It must’ve been halfway through the duck at Five-Ten Groveland when he explained that a publicist was not someone who worked at an ad agency. But by then he was intrigued by someone actually making enough money from his art to hire a publicist, and we’ve been friends ever since. I mean, until . . .” He shrugged and looked away, his face sad.
    “You said you were helping him get into a Santa Fe gallery?”
    “Yes. It’s Marvin Gardens, the same one that represents me. They’ve done very well by me, making sure I get seen by the right reviewers, timing my shows for maximum effect, and most important, paying me promptly.” He expanded a little, literally, rising onto his toes, filling his chest, lifting his bearded chin. “Thanks to them, I’ve developed a national reputation.” He let some of the air out. “I was hoping they could do the same for Robbie.”
    “Do you know his family? Was he married?”
    “He was in the process of getting divorced when this happened. It was his wife who filed. She wasn’t in favor of his new lifestyle at all. ”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Then let me back up and explain. Like I say, Rob used to be in advertising. About ten years ago he and another fellow started their own company, Information Please. They were doing pretty well, making real money, everybody was happy.” Ian went over to the library table in the middle of the room. He used his good hand to turn the three-tiered holder of scissors, a measuring tape, scrap fabrics, a needle holder bristling with needles, and other gadgets associated with stitchery. He made it go around one full turn, then turned around himself and said, “Then Robbie was given a sentence of death.”

7
    There was a shocked silence. Robbie asked, “Have you ever heard of hepatitis C?”
    “I have,” Shelly said, pleased to have something to contribute. He turned to her, his eyes warm and interested, which caused a confusion of emotions in her breast. She touched her hair in its knot and continued, “Last year a child in my classroom had it, got it from his mother before he was born—at least, I think it was hepatitis C. It could have been A or B. I do recall he was a very sick little boy.”
    Betsy said, “I think they’re up to letter what, G? H? Why do you ask? Do you have hepatitis?”
    Ian shook his head. “No, no. But Robbie McFey did. He was told he was dying of it.”
    “He did? There was no mention of it in any of the news reports.”
    “The doctors were wrong. He wasn’t dying.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “I’m sorry, I guess I’m not explaining very well.” Ian leaned back against the table and stroked his goatee while he considered how to tell his story.
    Shelly slipped over a few feet so she could look at him in profile. He was attractive in a homely way. His nose was strong and only a little too