Still Lives by Maria Hummel

Author:Maria Hummel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Counterpoint
Published: 2018-08-21T16:00:00+00:00

15

Within the next hour, I lie three times.

First I lie to Jayme, who wants to know what behind-the-scenes stories I’ve gathered for the museum’s annual report.

“I’ve done a few interviews,” I fib. “I already finished the write-up of Evie’s.”

Then I lie to Kaye, who calls with a twang of payback in her voice for my drunken behavior at her post-cancer party. She can’t believe they’ve arrested Shaw and wants to know how I’m holding up, it’s so crazy, is there really a killer on the loose, and oh my God, she can’t even get tickets to the exhibition for three whole weeks, do I think there’s a way I can just sneak her and a couple of her survivor friends in today?

“I wish,” I say, and fumble through an excuse about the fire marshal counting the people in the galleries. “Next week?”

Then I lie to the ArtNoise fact checker who calls about Kevin’s article. “I’m in a meeting right now, but fax me the article and I’ll look at it.” I hang up on her protests.

Then I tell the truth to Phil and Spike, because it is impossible to fib to two grown men wearing fisherman sweaters and Andy Warhol wigs, and carrying sitars. “We did some busking outside today,” says Phil. “How much do you think we made?”

“Honestly?” I say. “Nothing.”

“We had our fifteen cents of fame,” says Phil. “Hey, you could wear a blond wig and be part of our revue. Then we could be Edie Sedgwick and the Andies.”

“Maggie is blond,” Spike points out.

“Yeah, but not the right kind,” says Phil.

I tell them I don’t know how to play the sitar anyway.

“Neither do we. Chad traded us three lessons in exchange for designing his flyers,” says Spike. “He’s an awful instructor, though.”

Chad, as in Yegina’s ex-husband.

“Wretched,” says Phil, sliding the Warhol flop back to expose his broad brow. “Does not bode well for the new business.”

“Business?” I say.

“Teaching music to spoiled Silver Lake kids. Like us,” Spike says. He raises his hand and whack-strums the instrument, Pete Townshend style.

“He’s started a music blog, too,” says Phil. “It’s wildly popular with his mother.”

I don’t have time to listen to more twin patter, because it’s almost ten o’clock. So I feign extreme frowning over my copyediting until they trundle away, instruments banging their sides. Moments later, here’s my chance: Juanita T. Filippa, senior assistant to the director, is following Bas to the elevator. Juanita is wearing her usual conservative navy suit and alert but expressionless gaze, and I wonder what she thinks of the recent events. She is one of the Rocque’s oldest employees, and her manner seems to belong to another era, when cultural legitimacy was dispensed by a ruling class rather than earned from the masses. A thin gold bracelet slides along her arm as she presses the down button.

I wait until the elevator doors close, then another two minutes to make sure Juanita and Bas have reached the ground floor. In the dozen steps it takes

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