Part 22 (2/2)
”I'm so happy I found it. It's a family heirloom pa.s.sed down to me from my mom.” (It was pa.s.sed down to me from my mom, all right-via the Home Shopping channel-for $29.68, plus s.h.i.+pping and handling.) ”How touching,” Greg said. ”Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to my painting.”
”Just one more thing,” I said, not moving an inch. ”I was hoping you could do me a tiny favor. You see, I'm painting my bedroom, and I can't decide which color I like. What with you being an artist, I was hoping you could help me make up my mind.”
And before he had a chance to object, I whipped out some paint chips I'd picked up at the home supply store.
”What do you think? Azure? Or Robin's Egg Blue?”
He gave the chips a cursory glance and said, ”Robin's Egg Blue.”
”That's the blue you prefer?”
”Yes, that's the blue I prefer!” he said with an impatient tap of his work boots.
”Very interesting, I said. ”Because both of these paint chips happen to be green.”
An angry flush surged up under his tan.
”Get out of here!” he screamed. ”Now!”
But I wasn't about to go anywhere.
”You're colorblind, aren't you, Greg? I noticed it yesterday. Your socks didn't match. They still don't.”
He looked down at his socks, then up at me.
”So? I'm colorblind. What's the big deal?”
”It's no big deal, not unless you're an artist famed for his use of color.”
His eyes darted around the room like he was looking for the nearest emergency exit.
Clearly I had him rattled.
”And if you're so busy painting, how come your hands are so clean? Not a spot of paint anywhere.”
”Ever hear of turpentine?” he sneered.
”Sure have. It has quite a distinct smell. Your hands smell like Zest to me.”
”Exactly what are you trying to say?”
This was it. The moment I'd been waiting for.
”You're a fraud, Greg. Someone else painted your paintings.”
”That's preposterous!”
He tried to look outraged, but it wasn't working. Those darting eyes of his refused to meet mine.
”You can't prove a thing!” he said, a hint of desperation in his voice.
”Oh, yes, I can.” I decided to throw caution to the winds and tell the truth. ”I happened to be sitting in a tree outside your studio yesterday. I saw you take that dusty old painting out of a closet and tell someone at an art gallery that you'd just finished painting it.”
”Okay, that does it!” he said, whipping out his cell phone from his jeans pocket. ”I'm calling the cops and having you arrested for trespa.s.sing!”
”Great. And while we're waiting for them to show up, I'll call your art gallery and tell them you're a fake.”
”It'll be your word against mine.” He clamped his arms across his chest in a gesture of defiance. ”They'll never believe you.”
”I think they will when I tell them about that mysterious closet of yours. Something tells me there may be a whole lot more 'freshly painted' oils stacked up inside.”
That was it. Game over. Score one for Jaine.
Shoulders slumped in defeat, Greg clicked his phone shut and sank down into a nearby armchair.
”Joy knew all about this, didn't she?” I asked.
He nodded mutely.
”And she was blackmailing you.”
”For five miserable years,” he groaned.
”So who really painted your stuff?”
”My uncle George. He died about six years ago. Left me everything in his will. Uncle George painted as a hobby. Never thought of himself as an artist, just kept piling his pictures in the garage. He thought they were worthless, and so did I.
”At first I planned to have them all hauled off to the Goodwill. Except for one painting that I'd hung in my living room. Then one night I brought home a woman I met in a bar. She took one look at the painting and fell in love with it. Saw it was signed G. Stanton and a.s.sumed I painted it. I didn't correct her. I was trying to score with her, and I thought that might help. Turns out she worked at an art gallery on Melrose. She brought it in, and the owner put it up on display. Two weeks later it sold for forty-five grand.”
He smiled at the memory.
”Needless to say, I canceled that trip to the Goodwill. I realized I had a gold mine on my hands. If I parceled out Uncle George's paintings carefully, I could live on them for the rest of my life.
”Soon I was getting a lot of press, and Uncle George's paintings started selling for more and more money. Everything was going along fine. Until Joy came along.”
He slumped even lower in his seat.
”She showed up at one of my gallery exhibits. I knew she was trouble the minute I saw her waddling over to me in one of her tent dresses. She had this smile on her face, like a cat who'd just caught a particularly juicy mouse.
”She said she knew all about my little secret and that unless I joined her crummy dating service and agreed to be photographed with her all over town, she'd tell the world what a fraud I was.”
”How on earth did she know about your uncle George?”
”After my Aunt Min died, Uncle George was lonely. He wanted to join Dates of Joy but couldn't afford the initiation fee. So he wrote Joy a letter, asking if she'd accept one of his paintings instead of money. She turned him down flat, of course, money-grubbing b.i.t.c.h that she was.
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