The Art of Deception

“Mr. Adam Haines is here to see you.”
    “Haines? What the devil does Haines have to do with it? It’s the end, I tell you. The climax.” He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. The pale blue eyes watered so that for one awful moment, Adam thought he’d weep. “Haines?” he repeated. Abruptly he focused on Adam with a brilliant smile. “I’m expecting you, aren’t I?”
    Cautiously Adam offered his hand. “Yes.”
    “Glad you could come, I’ve been looking forward to it.” Still showing his teeth, he pumped Adam’s hand. “Into the parlor,” he said, moving his grip from Adam’s hand to his arm. “We’ll have a drink.” He walked with the quick bouncing stride of a man who hadn’t a worry in the world.
    In the parlor Adam had a quick impression of antiques and old magazines. At a wave of Fairchild’s hand he sat on a horsehair sofa that was remarkably uncomfortable. The maid went to an enormous stone fireplace and began to scrub out the hearth with quick, tuneful little whistles.
    “I’m having Scotch,” Fairchild decided, and reached for a decanter of Chivas Regal.
    “That’ll be fine.”
    “I admire your work, Adam Haines.” Fairchild offered the Scotch with a steady hand. His face was calm, his voice moderate. Adam wondered if he’d imagined the scene on the stairs.

    “Thank you.” Sipping Scotch, Adam studied the little genius across from him.
    Small networks of lines crept out from Fairchild’s eyes and mouth. Without them and the thinning hair, he might have been taken for a very young man. His aura of youth seemed to spring from an inner vitality, a feverish energy. The eyes were pure, unfaded blue. Adam knew they could see beyond what others saw.
    Philip Fairchild was, indisputably, one of the greatest living artists of the twentieth century. His style ranged from the flamboyant to the elegant, with a touch of everything in between. For more than thirty years, he’d enjoyed a position of fame, wealth and respect in artistic and popular circles, something very few people in his profession achieved during their lifetime.
    Enjoy it he did, with a temperament that ranged from pompous to irascible to generous. From time to time he invited other artists to his house on the Hudson, to spend weeks or months working, absorbing or simply relaxing. At other times, he barred everyone from the door and went into total seclusion.
    “I appreciate the opportunity to work here for a few weeks, Mr. Fairchild.”
    “My pleasure.” The artist sipped Scotch and sat, gesturing with a regal wave of his hand—the king granting benediction.
    Adam successfully hid a smirk. “I’m looking forward to studying some of your paintings up close. There’s such incredible variety in your work.”
    “I live for variety,” Fairchild said with a giggle. From the hearth came a distinct snort. “Disrespectful brat,” Fairchild muttered into his drink. When he scowled at her, the maid tossed a braid over her shoulder and plopped her rag noisily into the bucket. “Cards!” Fairchild bellowed, so suddenly Adam nearly dumped the Scotch in his lap.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “No need for that,” Fairchild said graciously and shouted again. At the second bellow the epitome of butlers walked into the parlor.
    “Yes, Mr. Fairchild.” His voice was grave, lightly British. The dark suit he wore was a discreet contrast to the white hair and pale skin. He held himself like a soldier.
    “See to Mr. Haines’s car, Cards, and his luggage. The Wedgwood guest room.”
    “Very good, sir,” the butler agreed after a slight nod from the woman at the hearth.
    “And put his equipment in Kirby’s studio,” Fairchild added, grinning as the hearth scrubber choked. “Plenty of room for both of you,” he told Adam before he scowled. “My daughter, you know. She’s doing sculpture, up to her elbows in clay or chipping at wood and marble. I can’t cope with it.” Gripping his glass in both hands, Fairchild bowed his head. “God knows I try. I’ve put my soul into it. And for what?” he demanded, jerking his head up again. “For what?”
    “I’m afraid I—”
    “Failure!” Fairchild moaned, interrupting him. “To have to deal with failure at my age. It’s on your head,” he told the little brunette again. “You have to live with it—if you can.”
    Turning, she sat on the hearth, folded her legs under her and rubbed more soot on her nose. “You can hardly blame me if you have four thumbs