“Understood. But I’d do a better job at staving him off if I had more information to go on. He’s always throwing something new at me and catching me off guard.”
“New?” I’m on alert now.
“Yeah. Does the name Riley Reynolds mean anything to you?”
Damn. Someone with the police must have leaked information about her. Riley is going to be badly rattled if her name ends up in the news.
“I know she was a student at Carter once,” I say. He’s not getting anything more from me than that.
“Yes, but she left in the middle of the fall term—the same year Melanie died—and never returned. And she’s supposedly back in the area now. You haven’t heard where, have you?”
“Chip, you really need to speak to the state police about any questions you have,” I say, irritated again by how much he’s pushing. “I’m not the correct person to be commenting on any of this.”
“Sure, sure, of course.”
As I hang up and fully focus on my whereabouts again, I realize I’m already on the corner of Oak Street and Birch, and five minutes later I’m in front of Alison’s studio. I start quickly down the path, hoping that if Handlerisat home, he won’t have noticed me.
The door swings open only seconds after I knock. Unlike her husband, Alison hasn’t taken her sweet time to respond.
“Ah, welcome,” she says. She offers a smile that’s both inviting and enigmatic, as if she’s pleased I’m here but still savoring a secret fromearlier in the day. In the daylight, I notice that her hazel eyes are flecked with gold.
“I hope I’m not throwing off your schedule,” I say.
“Not at all. Please come in.”
It’s the smell I notice first: a rich mix of woodsy scents like cypress and cedar with a hint of something minty, maybe eucalyptus. It’s almost like I’ve stepped into a hidden forest, something magical or dreamlike.
The look of the studio is enchanting, too, even more than I realized when I snooped through the windows. I’m closer to the paintings now, with their vivid yellows and blues, but I avoid fixating on their disturbing images.
Instead, I soak up the rest of the space with my eyes—the large easel in the middle of the room, the rolling carts overflowing with brushes and paint tubes, the antique-looking wooden worktable against the wall on my right. The door to the back room is open, and I spot a daybed inside and a rattan ceiling fan rotating above it. Is that room just for reading and afternoon naps, or does Alison escape there some evenings, fretting about a husband she senses might be a cheater?
“What a lovely workspace,” I say. “You must enjoy coming here each day.”
“I do, very much.” She’s dressed in a white turtleneck sweater and flowy moss-green pants, like the mistress of this tranquil forest, and her hair is in a loose knot, with tendrils framing her face. “When we were first looking in the area, we couldn’t find anything with a suitable outbuilding, but someone at the college knew this house was about to go on the market and told Jeffrey about it.”
“Is Friday a busy teaching day for him?” I ask, hoping to confirm he’s on campus.
“No, Fridays are when he writes, though today he’s having lunch in Albany with a friend ... Please take a look around. And I’d be glad to answer any questions you have.”
I don’t have any choice now but to absorb the artwork. For the first time I wonder if she views me as a potential buyer, and mydecision to stop by has totally misled her. How thoughtless of me not to consider that.
I approach the painting of the woman with the basket full of mice, and as I fully take it in, I admit to myself that the image might be unsettling but it’s also gripping. Still, I’d never want anything like that hanging in my living room.
I force my gaze to the painting to the left. In this one a woman sits at a kitchen table, echoing a painting on Alison’s website. There’s a horse in this one, too, but it’s tiny, the size of a toy figure, and it’s perched on a dinner plate. The woman is about to cut into it with her knife and fork.
And next to that is one with slightly different colors. There’s a woman in a white dress again, but she’s dark haired and holding a baby doll with bright-orange flames shooting out of its head.
“What do you think?” Alison asks evenly from behind me. “And please be honest. I’m very thick-skinned about my work.”
“I have to admit they’re disturbing, but also very arresting,” I say, turning around. “And I love the colors you use.”
“Thank you, that means a lot.”
“Are these actual dreams of yours?”
“Not dreams I’ve necessarily had. But ones I can imagine myself having.”
“I see,” I say, though I’m not sure I do. Perhaps she’s afraid of mice and conflicted about not having children and assumes those thoughts might haunt her sleep if given half a chance.
