He nodded understanding and began rummaging through a stack of paintings. “The Ingerssons and their tribe eventually gave up portraits, probably due to the paint corrosion. But the artwork that survived is quitedistinctive.”
He pulled out a faded canvas and held it in the sunlight, where she couldsee it. The subject appeared to be artists painting other artists, a vain conceit, but Sam recognized her own face in that of the woman being painted. She touched the woman’s wild mane of hair. “Mygrandmother?”
He nodded, and pointed at one of the artists in front of an easel. The man’s face was turned away. Only his blond haystack of curls was visible. “Yourgrandfather.”
“Well,I see how I came by the unruly hair,” she said, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel. How did he know about her family? “You didn’t paint this, didyou?”
“No, this was done before Valerie was born. She’s a little younger than I am, so I’d say this work is over fifty years old, just before your grandfather’s art became famous and brought notoriety to the commune. It’s not signed, but Valeriesays it looks like her mother’s style. They were probably standing in front of mirrors so she could capture both of them at work. It used to hang in the lobby but Carmel had it takendown.”
“This paint didn’t corrode,” Sam noted withinterest.
“But it faded, so they were experimenting with different mediums. We can learn so much from examining the work of the masters.” He set theoil back in thestack.
Sam wouldn’t call her grandparents masters if that was an example, but she nodded agreement anyway. “I noticed a painting in the dining room that resembles the mural in the diner. Was that done backthen?”
He frowned. “Given its condition, most likely, although it appears a good deal of tempera was applied in some attempt to repair it. I never met most of thepeople the painting and the mural represent, so I can’t say if they’re a goodlikeness.”
“Perhaps the lodge’s canvas just needs a good cleaning, like the one at Dinah’s. Do you think anyone would mind if I took a look at it?” Sam wasn’t certain if she was learning anything valuable, but talking to Lance had been interesting. She’d have to ask Elaine about using crystals inpaint.
“Not at all.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the lodge. “Go before the lunch hordes descend, and no one will know you’rethere.”
Feeling as if she’d been dismissed, Sam thanked him for his time and loped toward the lodge. She hadn’t done a study of the Santa Cruz mountains, but in general along an oceanic fault, she assumed she would find sandstone and granite. If Daisy was findingcrystalsfor her sculptures, and artists were grinding them into paint, she would guess there was some form of quartz diorite as well. She wasn’t a geologist, but she liked rocks. Diorite polished up nicely and made pretty kitchen counters. It was too hard for detailed carving, but she supposed it could be ground to addsparkle.
The dining room was empty. The lodge’s business hadn’t pickedup since the fire. She’d hate to see the town dry up and blow away if the tourists didn’t come back. But she had ideas bubbling of how they could work with the burn site—if her step-grandmother would listen. Except Mariah wanted to keep Carmel away—odd.
Sam found the painting she’d noticed the one night she’d eaten at the lodge restaurant. It was too dark to really see it. Looking around,deciding there was no one to notice, she lifted the frame from the hook and carried it to a window. The porch overhang prevented too much sun from entering, but the light by the window wasbrighter.
She had seen Lucinda Malcolm’s work. This wasn’t it. She’d hoped it might be a valuable piece the Kennedys could sell to help cover expenses until the burn site was restored. But this was justwhat Lance had said—a tempera-dabbed oil, probably from half a century ago. It was another trite conceit—the artist portraying himself and his friends as the disciples at the Last Supper. The Jesus figure in the center was sitting behind a counter that looked like Dinah’s, and resembled the curly-haired man Lance had identified as her grandfather, although his hair was considerably longer in thiswork.
Anyone who portrayed himself as the Savior had to be an arrogant prick. She assumed hisdiscipleswere other members of the commune. They were all very young. Disappointed, she returned it to thewall.
Turning around, she almost pressed her nose into Alan Gump’s expensive vest. Off-balance, she stepped back and her spine hit the wall. “Hasn’t anyone taught you about personalspace?” she askedirritably.
There was something about the lodge that made her say things sheshouldn’t.
The bulky man shrugged and stepped aside enough that she could sidle past him. “I was just trying to see what you saw in that old piece ofjunk.”
“Bullies intimidate by occupying personal space,” she continued, easing toward the door. “It’s not a good policy around peoplewho carry weaponsthough.”
Who in hell was this talking? She didn’t carry weapons. Sam wanted to bat her ear to see if Cass was inside her head again. But she didn’t sense Cass. Alan Gump just turned her into a porcupine for some reason. Maybe this was why the Lucys didn’t talk tohim.
Ignoring her comment, he continued studying the painting. “Did you recognize anyone inthis?”
Sam put a few tables and chairs between them. “Considering the painting is over half a century old,hardly.”
“I was told they were a cult. This seems to prove it.” He turned his back on the artwork to regard her. “The Kennedys are too polite to say so, but they don’t want you up here. I can set you up with a fine place in Frisco. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be wasting her timewith thesenuts.”
Appalled at the implication, Sam retorted, “Rich sexists like you don’t belong anywhere.” She swung on her heel and marchedout.
She felt as if she’d just left a load of filth behind, but she was more worried about the words spouting from her mouth—as if they weren’t herown.
