can’t hope to emulate.”
“So? What’s that got to do with … ?”
“Hurting Ivy?”
Sophie nodded.
“I don’t know specifically, but I think it’s all part of his malevolence — and his desire to control.”
Sophie didn’t feel comfortable jumping to such a broad conclusion. Besides, she distrusted this kind of off-the-cuff psychology on general principle.
“Speak of the devil,” whispered Kate.
Both women looked up as Hale strode briskly into the gallery, a cigar clenched between his teeth.
“Good morning, ladies.” He whisked the cigar out of his mouth as he came to a stop directly in front of them.
“I’m sorry,” said Kate, pushing an ashtray toward him, “but you’re going to have to put that out while you’re in here.”
Giving an annoyed grunt, he tapped the ash off the end and then lovingly crushed the tip against the glass. “I’m here to see Ezmer’s latest installment.” His normal grandiosity was noticeably absent.
“Sure,” said Kate, rising from her chair. “It’s in the back, still boxed up. I haven’t looked at it yet myself.”
“Ezmer?” asked Sophie, a questioning look on her face.
Kate reached into the top desk drawer and drew out a letter. “Ezmer Hawks. That artist from northern Minnesota. I’ve featured his work here before.”
The light dawned. “Oh, sure. The one who does pastels.” Sophie found the man’s work rather childish. She’d never paid it much attention.
“Well?” said Hale, his expression full of impatience. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Of course. But first, this is for you.” Kate handed him the letter. “It came in the morning mail.”
“What is it?”
She shrugged. “It’s from Mr. Hawks. It’s addressed to you.”
Hale’s hand shook ever so slightly as he ripped it open. Taking out his reading glasses, he remained silent while studying the contents. When he was finished, he folded it and stuffed it into his pocket.
“I didn’t know you two were corresponding,” said Kate.
“We’re not.” His voice was cold. “I want to see that drawing. Now.”
“Certainly. Sophie, you’re welcome to come with us.” Kate moved around the desk and headed into the hallway.
“Don’t mind if I do.” She was entirely too intrigued by Hale’s strange behavior to turn the invitation down. Picking up her purse, she followed them back to the storage room.
As Kate unwrapped the small package, Sophie stood near the door and watched. Hale seemed uncharacteristically nervous. He kept fidgeting with his bow tie. His hands dipped in and out of his pockets. Finally Kate pulled the drawing free and handed it to him. At first, he just stared at it. No reaction. After another few seconds, Sophie noticed a muscle in his cheek begin to twitch. His forehead had become bright with sweat. Something truly extraordinary was happening and she had no idea what it was.
Crossing to where he and Kate were standing, she peered at the small pastel. It was more realistic — and at the same time, more surrealistic — than any she’d seen before. It appeared to be the frame of a door set directly at the edge of a cliff. Below was a river.
Slowly Hale handed it back. “Thank you,” he said, his voice strangely flat. He took off his glasses and put them away. “I have to go.” As he reached the door, he turned. “What’s that box number? The one in Soldiers Grove?”
“Ezmer’s?”
He nodded.
“Box 183. It should be on the letter he mailed you. Why?”
He opened the door. “None of your goddamn business.”
16
Several hours later, as Hale sped out of Moose Lake on his way to Soldiers Grove, he thought again of the note he’d received earlier in the day, the one from Ezmer Hawks — if that was his real name. He no longer believed it was. It had said, very simply: “Childhood memories. What would life be
“So? What’s that got to do with … ?”
“Hurting Ivy?”
Sophie nodded.
“I don’t know specifically, but I think it’s all part of his malevolence — and his desire to control.”
Sophie didn’t feel comfortable jumping to such a broad conclusion. Besides, she distrusted this kind of off-the-cuff psychology on general principle.
“Speak of the devil,” whispered Kate.
Both women looked up as Hale strode briskly into the gallery, a cigar clenched between his teeth.
“Good morning, ladies.” He whisked the cigar out of his mouth as he came to a stop directly in front of them.
“I’m sorry,” said Kate, pushing an ashtray toward him, “but you’re going to have to put that out while you’re in here.”
Giving an annoyed grunt, he tapped the ash off the end and then lovingly crushed the tip against the glass. “I’m here to see Ezmer’s latest installment.” His normal grandiosity was noticeably absent.
“Sure,” said Kate, rising from her chair. “It’s in the back, still boxed up. I haven’t looked at it yet myself.”
“Ezmer?” asked Sophie, a questioning look on her face.
Kate reached into the top desk drawer and drew out a letter. “Ezmer Hawks. That artist from northern Minnesota. I’ve featured his work here before.”
The light dawned. “Oh, sure. The one who does pastels.” Sophie found the man’s work rather childish. She’d never paid it much attention.
“Well?” said Hale, his expression full of impatience. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Of course. But first, this is for you.” Kate handed him the letter. “It came in the morning mail.”
“What is it?”
She shrugged. “It’s from Mr. Hawks. It’s addressed to you.”
Hale’s hand shook ever so slightly as he ripped it open. Taking out his reading glasses, he remained silent while studying the contents. When he was finished, he folded it and stuffed it into his pocket.
“I didn’t know you two were corresponding,” said Kate.
“We’re not.” His voice was cold. “I want to see that drawing. Now.”
“Certainly. Sophie, you’re welcome to come with us.” Kate moved around the desk and headed into the hallway.
“Don’t mind if I do.” She was entirely too intrigued by Hale’s strange behavior to turn the invitation down. Picking up her purse, she followed them back to the storage room.
As Kate unwrapped the small package, Sophie stood near the door and watched. Hale seemed uncharacteristically nervous. He kept fidgeting with his bow tie. His hands dipped in and out of his pockets. Finally Kate pulled the drawing free and handed it to him. At first, he just stared at it. No reaction. After another few seconds, Sophie noticed a muscle in his cheek begin to twitch. His forehead had become bright with sweat. Something truly extraordinary was happening and she had no idea what it was.
Crossing to where he and Kate were standing, she peered at the small pastel. It was more realistic — and at the same time, more surrealistic — than any she’d seen before. It appeared to be the frame of a door set directly at the edge of a cliff. Below was a river.
Slowly Hale handed it back. “Thank you,” he said, his voice strangely flat. He took off his glasses and put them away. “I have to go.” As he reached the door, he turned. “What’s that box number? The one in Soldiers Grove?”
“Ezmer’s?”
He nodded.
“Box 183. It should be on the letter he mailed you. Why?”
He opened the door. “None of your goddamn business.”
16
Several hours later, as Hale sped out of Moose Lake on his way to Soldiers Grove, he thought again of the note he’d received earlier in the day, the one from Ezmer Hawks — if that was his real name. He no longer believed it was. It had said, very simply: “Childhood memories. What would life be
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