Death of an American Beauty (Jane Prescott #3) - Mariah Fredericks Page 0,2

the guards, who seemed to know him well, I said, “Don’t tell me you’re now an art critic.”

He shook his head. “There are only so many ways to say bunk, garbage, con, and hooey, Miss Prescott. These fellows make P. T. Barnum look like an honest man. No, I’m here to cover the local color angle. Reactions of the average man and woman, with a bit of gossip about the famous who wander through.”

He handed our coats off at the coat check, then turned to me. “Now then, average woman. What would you like to see first?”

I gazed at the bustling, well-dressed crowd. I had dreamed of this for weeks, and now I was actually here. Thrilled to feel both free and in exactly the right place, I said, “I want to see every last bit of it, Mr. Behan.”

“Shall we start at the Chamber of Horrors?” This was the nickname for Gallery I, where the Cubists were displayed.

“Let’s.”

I had last seen Michael Behan at the time of William and Louise’s wedding. It had been an uncertain time for me. I had not been sure of my place with the Benchleys, and just before the wedding, a young woman I knew had been murdered. The sudden end of her life had made me look at my own in a different light.

In such a mood, seeing Michael Behan, who was both good-looking and married, had been complicated. I realized now, I had let myself get caught up in all sorts of stupid ideas, taking letters he had written to me for something beyond what they were. Thankfully, I hadn’t made a fool of myself, and I could now be in his company without a trace of confusion. Yes, I was pleased to be seen in smart new clothes. But if women couldn’t take pleasure in having their attractions noted, a lady’s maid’s career would not thrive.

Gallery I was by far the most crowded. Craning to see over shoulders, I asked, “Where is Nude Descending a Staircase?” The painting by a Frenchman named Marcel Duchamp was said to be the most shocking of the entire show, and I was in a mood to be shocked.

“Right over here,” said Behan. “And I’ll give you a dollar if you can see anything remotely resembling a human being.”

The painting was mobbed, and it was a while before I could get even a glimpse of it. I confess, my first thought was Mud.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” said Behan. “Puts me in mind of a dropped book.”

I peered at the canvas, determined to see that nude. There was a briefest flash of comprehension—Oh, it’s like that, isn’t that astonishing?—before a beefy man elbowed me to one side and I was back to seeing muddy trees.

The reorientation of my eyes held enough that when we moved on to a sculpted head that looked made up of triangles and rectangles, I said truthfully, “That’s beautiful.” But I felt my face go red when we approached a black-and-white image of a nude woman. The strokes were rough and unlovely. She was well fleshed, her belly sloping, legs open. Avoiding Mr. Behan’s eye, I went on to Woman with Mustard Pot.

Here, you could see the person clearly: a woman sitting, rather bored, her head leaning on her hand. Her face was all angles, slashing cuts of black, orange, gray, and yellow. I wasn’t sure I liked it; it felt almost cruel to take a face apart like this. But it was also mesmerizing. Nearby a matronly woman declared that if her child ever made art like this, she would smack it.

We wandered through to another room, where Mr. Behan admired a painting of boxers—all muscle and epic struggle—and we both smiled in recognition of a painting of three young women drying their hair on the roof of a city building.

Then I heard a high, excited voice call my name. I turned to see Louise’s young sister-in-law Emily Tyler weaving her way through the crowd, catching the eye of several gentlemen. This was not surprising; she was tall and lively, with the reddish-brown hair of the Tylers and mischievous brown eyes all her own. What was surprising was her presence in the city. She was supposed to be at Vassar College.

As she reached us, she said, “Is Louise here, or are you on your own?”

“On my own,” I informed her. “It’s my holiday.”

“Me as well,” said Emily happily. “Not officially, but yesterday, I just decided that if I had to read or write