“Sometimes an artist uses real life as a foundation, but then he fictionalizes.”
“Painting me as Maureen Nicholson’s killer? Where’s the real-life foundation in that?”
“She was murdered, no? And you solved her murder.”
“What if people take your fictionalization seriously? You have Isak putting his label on someone else’s jam. Do he and Clay know you did that?”
“Doubtful.”
“Don’t you care if people view you as vindictive? Even a liar?”
“Life is short, art is forever.”
“Dalton, you have that exactly backwards.”
He let his hands fall to his sides, then walked to the windows, cleared a space next to his Buddha statue, and sat on the edge of the table. “I see and hear things, then I say to myself, ‘Oh, that’s interesting,’ and I use those things in my work. One of the first community events I went to when I moved here was the Farmers’ Market Festival, and three separate people”—he held up three fingers to make his point—“told me with absolute assurance that Isak copied recipes from old-timers and claimed them as his own. These were reliable people without an axe to grind, as far as I could tell. They offered the information, without me asking. So I have Isak switching labels—the truth with a slight fictional twist.”
“What if those three people were in competition with Isak at the festival?”
He gave an exaggerated shrug. “I didn’t ask them for IDs. Do you really think three separate people would tell me the same lie?”
“You’re not uncomfortable with validating their accusation in a painting that’s going to hang in a gallery that he and Clay financed?”
“Isak doesn’t know what I painted, and neither does Clay. They’re interested in this.” He rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together, the universal sign for moolah.
“I wouldn’t be so sure they don’t know, especially after Laura’s reaction to another one of your paintings. They’re going to go over them with a fine-tooth comb.”
Dalton leaned my way. “People see the whole, not the parts. Most people, that is.” He swung his legs beneath the table a couple times, again looking like a kid. “You’ve seen the parts, but why? Why are you studying my work, Mrs. Stowe-Gilroy?”
“I’ve never seen that piece,” I replied, tilting my head at the modern Impressionist-style landscape.
He continued to look at me.
I fumbled around for a compliment. “It’s very nice.”
“A taste for cheeseburgers, I see.”
“With mustard.”
He slid off the table. “I’ve got four completed landscapes. Take a look and pick one.” He fingered his way through a stack of canvases and pulled out four, all Impressionist types with a modern bent, all landscapes.
“These aren’t your thing?” I said, looking them over. “This one looks like Rocky Mountain National Park.”
“It is, and as for them not being my thing, they pay some bills.” He took off his coat and let it fall to the floor.
“Not as much as the Juniper Grove ones, I’ll bet.”
“If you mean my Hidden Little Town series, then yes, those cost more. They’re worth it.”
“All those details. People in town, Holly’s Sweets, Juniper Grove High, Bloom’s, Lilac Lane B&B.”
“You haven’t said why you’re studying my work.”
My eyes fell on the fourth canvas Dalton had laid out for me. This one was different from the other landscapes, almost as if Dalton had transformed into another person while painting it. A winter scene under a sullen sky: barren white fields, tattered clouds, snow-covered hedges and trees, shivering black birds. It was both melancholic and beautiful. “You’ve only painted four landscapes?”
“I’ve painted more, but there are only four in the studio right now. Completed, that is. I’m working on a fifth, on the easel there.”
“I like this one a lot,” I said.
“That’s ironic.”
“How so?”
He shrugged. “It’s yours. If you really like it.”
I looked at him. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Positive.” He scooped up the other canvases and leaned them against the wall.
“It’s not a cheeseburger,” I said. “Far from it. Something like this takes incredible skill.”
Was it gratitude I saw in the fleeting expression that followed my remark? It came and went so quickly I wasn’t sure.
Dalton put away the other paintings and settled once more into his role as curmudgeon. “If you frame it, don’t use metal. I can’t tell you how idiotic metal looks with oil, and I see that combination too often. And don’t place it above a couch like you bought it at Walmart. First, it’s too small, and second, it’s not one of those discount-priced, couch-sized prints.”
“I’ll find a good place for it,” I said. “It really is remarkable. Thank you, Dalton.”
When he said nothing, I glanced over at him. He seemed pained at the prospect of letting the painting go.
