Trophies by J. Gunnar Grey Page A

beginning in the ruffles around the
big cat's face and tracing all the way down the tail. A
red-and-gold spotted jasper brought the cheetah to life; the camel
was of golden citrine; and the rhino was smoky quartz.
    "I have to get that hippo for Aunt Edith's
collection." It was carved from a wonderful emerald with black
inclusions, the dark spots positioned perfectly to serve as eyes,
nose, mouth, tail, and feet, one of them raised.
    "She already bought it," Patty said. "He's
holding it for her until the end of the show."
    I glanced around the room but recognized no
one near, and finally admitted it: the people, including the
family, were as fascinating as the artwork. The spotlights,
positioned so perfectly for each canvas, flickered across faces as
people strolled about, lighting them like stars then throwing them
into shadows like the chorus, and the shifting play was
fascinating. "Now, I know there are two other artists in this show.
Which of this is theirs and what was done by Trés?"
    Patty shook her head. "Everything you've seen
is Trés' work."
    "All of it? The oils, these gem carvings, the
pastels, watercolors—"
    She interrupted. "All of it. I told you he's
marvelous."
    Her words raised a question in my mind. I
took a slower inventory of the room and compared what I could see
with my knowledge of Prissy's floor plan. "Patty, that's well over
half the show. What about the other two artists? Didn't they
complain?"
    "Yes, well, there were a few heated words,
but he is — well, was Aunt Edith's great-nephew, after all. If she
wanted to show him off—" She stopped. "You aren't thinking—"
    I shrugged; it would do no good to upset her.
"I suppose if it could seriously damage their careers, perhaps
giving them such a small section in a show might be a motive for
murder. But I find it difficult to believe, don't you?" I glanced
about again as we strolled past more of Trés' watercolors. "Have
you seen Prissy tonight?"
    "Not yet, but that's not unusual, is it? She
generally takes time to fortify her nerves before making her grand
entrance." Patty ducked behind a free-standing display, her hands
flying to her chignon, where bobby pins peeked from beneath the
coils of hair. "Aunt Edith usually covered for her, but now—"
    As Aunt Edith's principal heir, covering for
Prissy was now my job. I felt not up to it and ignored the hint.
And I knew all about Prissy fortifying her nerves; I'd split a
flask with her before previous shows and never got half. But Patty
seemed to have forgotten my insinuation and rearranged pins and
hair with a serene expression, so the tactic could be considered
successful. "Is the art world like the military?" I studied the
nearest display, where a watercolor sun rose or set beyond a
Caribbean isle. It would look grand over Uncle Hubert's fireplace.
"Does one need nerves of steel to survive and thrive?"
    "Oh, give it a miss. Mum, there you are."
    Aunt Viola, the rose hybridizer, slipped
behind the display. Her face brightened when our gazes met and she
pulled me down a foot so she could buff my cheek. Here was where
Patricia's mousy brown hair and trim little nose originated, as
well as the maternal nature and romantic overtones. The
practicality and old-fashioned common sense came via Uncle Preston,
who trailed behind his wife and squeezed my shoulder.
    It always amazed me that Uncle Preston had so
many facial features in common with my father and yet appeared so
utterly different. They both had black hair now mostly grey, rugged
faces, prominent cheekbones and chins, and the signature Ellandun
green eyes and Roman nose. It took me years to figure out the
difference lay in mannerisms and expressions: Father was an
arrogant, carnivorous legal eagle, Uncle Preston an Anglican
dove.
    I used to wonder what my life might have been
like if Uncle Preston had been my father; not even in nightmares
could I imagine him kicking out one of his children, no matter what
mischief they created nor how many schools