Chapter 64

Susan Dwyer hung up the phone, wondering where the hell Avram was. She had tried to reach him on both his home number and his cell phone. She thought that he must be working late, and it irritated her because she was forbidden to call him there. She wondered if he’d heard about Rolly Archer taking off. What a stroke of luck that was! After all, who would run, if they weren’t guilty?

She studied the two dark paintings she was about to put in the crate. She couldn’t wait to tell him that she had his precious paintings! She couldn’t, for the life of her, imagine what he saw in them. As far as she was concerned, they were depressing. He should have just asked Marc for them, anyway, even if they weren’t for sale. They were brothers, after all! But no, it fell to her to lie to Marc, telling him there was an “anonymous” buyer who had offered fifty thousand for the pair.

And then, unbelievably, Marc had turned it down! Who did he think he was, Picasso? Marc had gotten pissed with her for showing them at all. How was she supposed to know he didn’t want anyone to see them? That they were private? How stupid was that? Did he paint to sell, or what?

He wouldn’t let her take them to New York. And David wouldn’t, either. Oh, well, that problem is solved, she thought. By the time David discovers they’re missing, they’ll be sold to that anonymous buyer.

She smiled and slid them, one at a time, into the crate, which was already addressed to Avram at his townhouse in Boston.

Meeting Avram Solomon was the best thing that ever happened to Susan; and it had happened at just the right time. Her carefully balanced world was about to fall apart like a toppling stack of blocks.

It had all started with her beautiful home. The two-story, waterfront house in Old Town, near Southernmost Point, was over one hundred years old. Two years ago, she’d put her life savings into the historic home. The real estate bubble was fully inflated at the time, and investors were buying property in the Keys like the sand was twenty-four-karat gold dust.

Susan had known the owner of the house, an old widow who was a regular visitor at the Sandpiper. When the widow told Susan that she wanted to sell the dilapidated house and move to St. Augustine to be near her daughter, Susan had immediately made the widow an offer.

Susan’s plan had been to fix it up, and flip it. The mortgage payment was high, but doable, and there was no doubt in her mind that the house would sell quickly.

Unfortunately, everything had gone wrong. The repairs were much more expensive than Susan had thought. Just repairing the long dock had cost ten thousand! Susan didn’t have enough furniture, and decorating was more costly than she’d planned, too. Then the real estate bubble burst, and suddenly there were a slew of houses for sale in Key West…and no buyers.

Meanwhile, the monthly payment on her adjustable rate mortgage had doubled, as had her property taxes and insurance.

Susan had been barely managing the situation by using up the available credit on her cards. The only bright spot was the increasing prices and demand for Marc Solomon’s paintings. Fortunately, Marc had been prolific, and there was a backlog of his work at the gallery that had been selling well.

But that stockpile of his art wouldn’t last forever, and, due to his illness, Marc had been slowing down. To make matters worse, they hadn’t been getting along. The run-up to Marc’s Boston show was a disaster. They couldn’t agree on which pieces to show, or pricing, or much of anything. He drove her crazy.

Susan wanted to kill him!

And then she met Avram Solomon.

•

Susan first noticed Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome studying the Castle Cay paintings. He seemed so intent…

“Hi,” she said. “They’re very dramatic, aren’t they? Do you like them?”

“Oh. Ah…yes. Yes I do.”

“I’m afraid those two aren’t for sale. But, perhaps I could help you select something else. I’m Susan Dwyer, Marc Solomon’s agent.”

He smiled at her and grasped her extended hand in both of his.

“It’s a distinct pleasure to meet you, Susan,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I’m Marc’s brother, Avram Solomon.”

“My goodness!” she said. “I can’t believe we haven’t met before this!”

Avram turned on his considerable charm, and Susan basked in his attention. They walked around the gallery together for at least a half hour, until she realized that she was neglecting her job. She knew that Marc didn’t like his brother, and she noticed him looking at her as if to say, “What are you doing with HIM?”

“I better get back to circulating, Avram.”

“How about after the show? I know a great place for a late bite.”

“Ooh, I don’t know,” she whispered. “I should probably eat with Marc.”

“C’mon, there’s a piano bar…it’ll be fun,” he whispered back. “Make an excuse! Marc doesn’t have to know.”

Susan was forty-six and lonely.

They slept together that same night in her hotel room, although “slept” certainly didn’t describe it. Susan was a big-boned, plain woman, who translated Avram’s voracious sexual appetite as “desire”. He used her and abused her…and she loved every minute of it.

Susan never felt so desirable in her life.

He’d flown her up to Boston twice after that, to spend the weekend with him at his townhouse. He overwhelmed her with his wealth, showered her with attention..

They were out to dinner at an exclusive restaurant when he began to talk about Marc having AIDS, about how he would certainly die soon, and what a terribly painful end that would be for him. Then he moved on to how devastating Marc’s illness would be for her and the gallery, too.

“And, Susan, you know how much I care for you…I think I might be falling in love with you…and because of that, I did some investigating. I hope you don’t mind that I did. It’s the way things are done in my circle, when one is serious and contemplating marriage.”

Susan had caught her breath.

“Oh, no! I understand, Avram!”

“Good, I’m glad. Now…I know that you have some liquidity problems because of the current real estate market. Heaven knows how many people have gotten caught in this downturn! Anyway, it seems that you have a problem, and so do I.

“You see, I can’t bear for my brother to have a long and painful death; I would prefer that he pass painlessly in his sleep. And I was thinking, my dear, that if you were to help me with this, perhaps I could help you by buying your home. In the long run, it would be a good investment. And, who knows? We may be married one day, anyway.”

The turn Avram’s proposal had taken and the audacity of it, stunned Susan. And it showed in her face.

“I hope I haven’t upset you!” he said, taking her hand, looking earnestly into her eyes. “I would never want to do that, my dear! It’s just that…well, I’m a practical man…and this seemed like a better way for all concerned…don’t you agree?”

Susan said nothing. She was speechless.

“Well, I’ll give you time to consider my proposal,” said Avram, skillfully and deliberately using the word ‘proposal’ once again.

“Let me know when you get home. I’d like to make some plans for our future! But whatever you decide, dear, I hope you’ll save those two paintings for me when Marc does pass away. I presume you’d have them then, wouldn’t you? I’d still be willing to pay fifty thousand for the pair.”

At last, she found her voice.

“I…I’ll think about it, Avram.”

Susan could think of nothing else as she flew home to Key West. Avram had certainly done his homework. To make such a daring proposal, he had to know all about her. Part of her was wounded…but part of her found it exciting. Avram took what he wanted! Susan felt a thrill, connecting his ruthless proposal to his rough command in bed. And then she weighed her situation with Marc against her relationship with Avram.

She shouldn’t kid herself about Marc. He didn’t know the first thing about promoting himself or his work. Without her, he’d be nowhere. But Marc felt no loyalty toward her, and now that he was becoming “known”, what was to prevent him from dumping her?

Nothing.

And if Marc were gone…a suicide, say…the value of his work would double, perhaps triple. She owned a number of pieces, herself. And she would probably retain the contract to sell the others. And she would get the gallery, too. And Avram could buy the house.

Susan had come to the conclusion that Avram was right…

It was “better for all concerned”.

•

Susan shoved the crated paintings into her large walk-in pantry to get them out of the way, and closed the door. She began picking up all the loose Styrofoam on the trestle table in her kitchen, where she often worked. She was about to frame the other oil she’d taken from Marc’s studio that was actually going to the Herzog Gallery in New York.

It was a small jewel of a painting; a sailboat against a vibrant sunset, the pure white spinnaker dead center.

Dead.

She really had to stop thinking about it! What was the point? It wasn’t like she could change anything now. But, try as she might, she couldn’t stop remembering. If only Marc had been dead…

•

David invited Susan over for a dinner of braised short ribs, after she teased him about how she had missed his cooking. She acted surprised and pleased at the subsequent invitation and offered to bring the wine. David, always an eager host, said he’d invite Rolly, too, and the four of them would “make a night of it”.

She arrived at their house on Gulf Wind Drive about seven.

“I hope you boys like this Cabernet,” she said, handing it to Marc. “It’s called ‘Chateau Very Expensive’! I poured two bottles into this decanter because the guy at the liquor store said it should ‘breathe’.”

They all laughed.

She was so nervous, but it was really easy. Since she never drank because of her diabetes, nobody expected her to drink the wine. David commented at one point that it had “an interesting finish”, but no one else said anything about the taste.

Susan could tell as the night wore on that the alprazolam was working. All three of them were yawning…so she pretended to yawn, too.

“Well, it’s time for me to go home, boys,” she said, rising and retrieving the empty Waterford decanter. “Thank you so much for a wonderful dinner, David.”

“I should go, too,” said Rolly, yawning again. “I have to be at work early tomorrow.”

Susan hoped Rolly wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel and have an accident. Marc and David walked them to the door, and they all air-kissed and said goodbye.

She returned an hour later and parked her car down the street. The lights were out, but to her surprise, Rolly’s old Toyota was back in the driveway. She almost ran back to her car! But then she realized that there was no chance he’d be with Marc. He’d be on the other end of the house, just as drugged as David.

She ducked down below the level of the windows and circled around to the rear of the house.

She was dismayed to see that the light in the pool was lighting the whole damn patio. And Marc’s vertical blinds on the sliding glass doors weren’t closed all the way, either…

To hell with it, she thought. If I get caught I’ll say I needed to get an extra painting to replace one I sold at the gallery. I’ll say I forgot to ask Marc for it after dinner, and I didn’t want to wake anybody. It was HIS idea to give me a key.

Susan quickly crossed the patio and paused on the outside stairs to the loft. There was no activity that she could see in Marc’s room through the blinds. She climbed the stairs to the little deck and started to unlock the studio door, fumbling with the key. The latex gloves made it difficult to hold on to; she was afraid of dropping it.

Finally, she got the key in and the door opened. She closed it behind her, crossed the room and headed for the stairs that led down into the kitchen. She paused on every other step, listening for any sounds in the house. There were none; it was quiet. The luminous pool outside cast a dim light through the glass doors into the house, and as her eyes adjusted, she found that she could see quite well. She turned left at the bottom of the staircase and went straight down the short hall to Marc’s bedroom. She put her ear to the bedroom door and listened for a minute or two.

Snoring.

Damn. He wasn’t dead.

Susan had hoped that the combination of Marc’s multiple HIV drugs and an overload of alprazolam would be lethal. However, she had always known that there was a chance it might not be enough.

No matter. If it wasn’t enough to kill him, she knew the overdose would certainly knock him out. Unfortunately - and besides being ineffectual - that could create another problem. What if Marc slipped into a coma? She certainly couldn’t have that! So, if need be, she had come prepared to quickly finish the job and leave.

She removed the syringe from the small purse strapped to her waist, turned the levered handle down and pushed open the door. The squeaking hinge sounded like a burglar alarm and she froze, holding her breath, halfway into the room.

No movement. He was still snoring.

She exhaled with relief, taking in the scene. Marc was sprawled on his back, naked and slick with sweat, despite the coolness of the room. Moonlight sliced through the partially open verticals, casting a striped pattern of light across his body. The ceiling fan made a low, hypnotic sound and was spinning so fast its blades were invisible. The weighted bottoms of the vertical cloth slats moved silently in the breeze. Within reach on the nightstand, a plethora of prescription drugs stood ready to aid sleep or relieve pain. Surprisingly, the needle slipped right into the vein on the first try.

If there’s a hell, I’m going there.

Marc’s eyes fluttered open.

“Susan?”

Then they closed.

* * * * *