Inherit the Dead

as if you had such passion when you called!”
    The way she smiled at him—like a grinning bobcat about to pounce—he wondered if she had looked him up, if she knew about his past, too.
    “Yes, it’s Mr. Christo. But please, call me Perry,” he said.
    Her smiled deepened. She assessed him as he stood there. He felt a little like a cut of meat at a butcher’s shop. But maybe it was important. He took some of his frustrations and his anger—mostly at himself—out on gym equipment. That might stand him well today.
    Though at the moment, the way she was looking at him, he felt like some male escort. Clearly, she had deigned to see him because she was curious.
    “Call me Lilith,” she told him. “Jeeves, we’ll take champagne, please,” she said to the butler, not bothering to look his way.
    The butler’s name is really Jeeves?
    “None for me, thank you,” Perry said.
    “Oh, Mr. Christo—Perry!” she said. “Indulge me. Obviously you’re here because you want something from me. That does mean that you should humor all my whims.”
    He didn’t say yes or no; the butler with the improbable name silently turned and disappeared.
    “Do come on in, Perry,” Lilith said with a broad sweep of her hand. At the one end of her studio was a settee with a small table before it. She indicated that he should sit.
    As he walked toward the settee, he looked at her work. Lilith took the concept of “abstract” to the extreme. Splotches of color adorned most of the canvases.
    “What do you think?” she asked him.
    He smiled. “I once went to a showing at the Guggenheim,” he told her.
    “And?”
    “They had just spent an incredible sum on a painting called Black .”
    “And does my work remind you of that priceless piece of art?” she asked.
    He shrugged. “It was black.”
    “Ah, but art is in the texture, in the subtext! What was the artist saying?” she asked.
    “That he’d gotten a lot of black paint?”
    She waved a hand in the air. “Well, of course, you were a cop. You were, right, at one time?” she asked, her smile dazzling. Her lips were generous and well formed, rich. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, and they set in her perfectly chiseled face like twin beacons of mischief. One of her elegant ringed hands moved in the air with an expression of patience. “One doesn’t expect someone unschooled in the arts to understand.”
    He blinked, willing himself to keep his face impassive, and quickly put himself in check; he wanted information out of this woman, and despite his inclination, he smiled and said, “Actually, I was lucky. My mother was an illustrator for a series of children’s books. She loved art—she would have loved to see your work. You’re exactly right; great art is usually in the subtext.
    “And Lilith, you are following along the lines of some magnificent work in the Hamptons. Why, two of the finest leaders of abstract expressionism— action painting —lived, worked, and even died here. Willem de Kooning moved to the Springs section of East Hampton in 1963 and died there at the ripe old age of ninety-two. His wife, Elaine, who did JFK’s official painting, came and went, living with him sometimes even after they divorced. Then there was Jackson Pollock. He moved here to the Springs, and, we know, poor devil died in a car crash. His wife, Lee Krasner, was an artist, too. You’re in the perfect place.” He quietly thanked his mother for his art education.
    “My, my, my—Perry. You do know something—about the Hamptons, and about art,” she said, slipping her arm through his. Shepressed close. He could feel the rise of her breasts against his upper arm.
    He paused by one of her paintings, hoping he didn’t choke on his words. “This . . . this is magnificent. The blues . . . I can’t claim to know everything, but in the drip of the paint, in the sweep of the colors, I see something of Dalí. I’m seeing the ocean merge into the sky. And the dots . . . people, like ants, moving about and never seeing that they’re all part of something grand. They’re far too busy in their little lives to realize that earth and sky meet, and yet there . . . your lone voyeur—she sees it all, and she sees herself melting into earth and sky sadly, so aware that she’s but a speck of sand or a grain of salt in the ocean.”
    Lilith looked at him and then at her painting. “You do have a deep soul, Perry. I’m so glad you like my work.”
    “It’s brilliant,” he lied. Quite