The Eye of the Beholder Read online

  This book, a handsome trade paperback, had been at the front of the shop in the small section of new books, the rest of the shop being given over mostly to shelves of secondhand beach reads and a cozy coffee shop. There had been some other local titles and a few more books on topics such as tequila and mariachi, sort of like the local interest shelves Audreys Books had near the front till here at home. I was all about the concept of “when in Rome” reading, and had been hard pressed not to take home two or three coffee table books. Steve had reminded me of our weight restrictions for the luggage and the fact that I’d already purchased several earthenware plates and a molcajete, which was a mortar and pestle made from volcanic basalt used in traditional salsa making. I put back the hardbound books, but kept the Frida bio.

  It offered two or three sections of colour plates throughout, with both photographs of Frida and Diego and reproductions of her paintings, along with some of his murals. The Salma Hayek movie Frida had given me a general idea of her life, but this book grounded her in the world at large, allowing me to equate the situations of her life to the historical markers I recognized from the Eurocentric vision of history I’d been fed in high school.

  No wonder there had been such an exuberant uptake on that art exhibit we’d been to see. I could understand how Mexican artists would embrace Frida as their icon of national pride. I could also see how female artists everywhere would see her as a heroine, much like Georgia O’Keefe and Judy Chicago. Frida Kahlo pushed back against every wall that was raised against her and lived an authentic life on her own terms.

  Steve arrived home around ten p.m., and found me snoozing, my book spread open on my chest and my head cricked into the side of the chair. He made just enough noise on the periphery of my consciousness to wake me, and I could tell that it was a good thing he’d made it home when he did or I’d have had a sore neck for the rest of the weekend.

  “There’s potato salad in the fridge, and rye bread from the K & K,” I said, as he kissed the top of my forehead.

  “I ate with Iain earlier, that’s okay. I think it’s time to just head to bed.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said as I pulled myself upright. I set my book on the coffee table in front of me. I didn’t think I had much reading time left in me and besides, I had a fall-asleep book on my bedside table already.

  Steve took a look at the book, and a shadow crossed over his face, which I wouldn’t have caught if I hadn’t been looking right at him.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s that book. I’ve seen it before.”

  “Yes, in that funny bookstore-coffee shop next to that fabulous bar with the jalapeño martinis. You were there when I bought it.”

  “No, I mean, yes, I recall that now, but I should have put it together before this. That book was in Kristin Perry’s beach bag when they found her.”

  “So she bought the same book?”

  “Or whoever killed her bought it and staged it for us to find.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “I don’t know, but there are several things that have come to light about the way the body was staged that the Vallarta police are concerned with.” Steve looked pensive. “Randy, I hate to ask this of you, because I know how you feel with both Keller and the detectives in Mexico being so dismissive of you, but would you mind making a report of the book for me?”

  “Sure I can, I’m reading it anyway. What sort of report do you want?”

  “I guess a synopsis of the book, along with your analysis of whether or not Kristin would have purchased that book herself, or whether you think it may have been planted for us to find.”

  “Of course I’ll do it, for you. Keller doesn’t have to know, or even if he knows, at least this is something where I could honestly be an expert opinion. After all, where else would you take a book to analyze than to an English department?”

  “You’re a doll.”

  We were in the bedroom by this time, and I had sloughed off my clothes and slid into my oversized T-shirt, which stood in for what, in another generation, would have been a nightgown and peignoir.

  Steve kissed me and headed into the bathroom for a quick shower, a habit he had when he came home. I recalled a mature student once writing in his class journal that he had returned to school to make the transition from a job where he showered at the end of the day to one where he showered at the beginning of the day. I’d thought it a nice demarcation at the time, but now I noted that Steve showered twice a day: once to be presentable for those he would meet and deal with, and once again when he returned, to wash away the sorrows and horrors he’d been privy to throughout his shift. Being the police was not an easy role, but I never heard him complain.

  By the time he came to bed, I was almost asleep. I felt him stroke my hair and whisper goodnight, and sensed the warmth of him in the bed, but that was all I knew until my alarm sounded the next morning.

  15

  Steve’s side of the bed was empty, and I could feel my heart do a little sad lurch. Then my ears caught on to noises beyond the bedroom. I paddled out to the kitchen in my saggy T-shirt to see my husband flipping a pancake into the air with flair.

  “How did I never know you could do this before?”

  He turned to smile at me with such warmth and love that I realized anew just how expertly police officers and detectives could compartmentalize their lives. There was no worry, no background calculations going on behind his eyes. He was fully in the moment, a man in his own home making breakfast for the woman he loved. I walked up behind him and encircled his waist with my arms, leaning my unbrushed head against his neck.

  “You will always be a wonder to me, Steve Browning,” I murmured. He leaned us both to the left as he deposited another perfect pancake onto a stack he had warming on a plate in the oven.

  “Breakfast is either ready immediately or in ten minutes, take your pick,” he said. I opted for the ten and scurried off to jump in the shower.

  Eight minutes later I was back in jeans, a sweatshirt and a damp braid down my back.

  “Can I help with anything?”

  “Want to pour us each a glass of orange juice?” At this point, he was patting bacon strips down between sheets of paper towels to get the excess grease off and setting them on a serving plate with a fresh paper towel lining it.

  I took two small glasses full of orange juice to the dining room table where Steve had assembled pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon, with a selection of syrups and fruit butters.

  “This is better than any service we got on our honeymoon,” I exclaimed and Steve beamed.

  “Dig in. I thought we should celebrate our first day off together.”

  He didn’t have to ask me twice.

  What is it about breakfast? I could eat breakfast foods for every meal. There were so many wonderful combinations thereof, also. Pancakes, French toast, porridge, cereals, muesli, fruit smoothies, omelettes, bacon, sausages, fried eggs, poached eggs, boiled eggs with toast soldiers, fruit and yogurt, dim sum, waffles. I drew the line at steak and eggs combinations or fried chicken before noon, but I’d seen them sneak into breakfast tables, too.

  I followed Steve’s lead and took some of everything. I reached for the sugar-free syrup, though. Our honeymoon had added six pounds to my weight, and from experience I knew that I had best tackle it right away. Right after these pancakes.

  “So, what would you like to do today?” Steve smiled at me, and opened his arms wide. “I am at your disposal.”

  “I have the day free, too. My marks are all recorded, my lessons prepped, my outfits laid out. The day is completely ours. Why don’t we clean up here and then head out and check out the galleries on 124th Street?”

  “Great idea. We could even have lunch over there. Some great little restaurants are dotted throughout that area.”

  “How can you even think about
food? I’m stuffed.”

  “It’s what propels me through the day, as a hunter-gatherer. What will my next meal be?”

  I helped clear the dishes into the dishwasher, and scrubbed up the pans in the sink. Steve went off to have his own shower, and soon we were heading down in the elevator to the parking level to get in Steve’s car. Although it was several years old, his blue Subaru Forester was still shiny and new-smelling, probably because it had relatively few miles on it. Most of the time, Steve was in an Edmonton Police Service vehicle.

  We drove up out of the underground level into a vividly bright February morning. The sky was that startling western blue without a cloud in the sky, stretching high and wide over the crisp whiteness of an Edmonton winter. Light reflected off the snow, making nights less opaque and daytimes dazzling. I scrambled for my sunglasses in my bag, and Steve pulled his driving sunglasses out of a small pocket on the dash.

  We had been looking at art in Mexico, and while we’d seen some pieces we’d really liked, a lot of it felt too flamboyant for our walls back north. My parents had been right; choosing art together was a really good exercise in understanding each other’s tastes and needs.

  It was also a way, I knew, for my mother to help me feel as if Steve’s home was my home. I wasn’t bringing much in the way of furniture, so if we could make some choices of what would hang on the walls, she was banking on my being more comfortable with the space.

  Steve, to his credit, had recognized this ploy for what it was but approved it wholeheartedly.

  “They say you should never buy art as a gift, and this is the corollary of that principle. You should always buy art together if it goes on shared walls. Your parents are very wise.”

  “I’m guessing we should give credit to my mother. My dad was probably thinking a new barbecue would be a better gift.”

  “And what went on their walls, and who do you think chose it?”

  “When I was little, we were always in military housing, and Mom had only a few things she took everywhere. There was an Irish linen tea towel with “house rules” from some old manor house like Downton Abbey that hung over the kitchen table. She had two little pictures from her mother of a little boy and his grandfather sailing toy sailboats with larger ships in the distance and those always went in the hall, and a couple of plaster sea horses that hung in the bathroom. And we had a painting my grandmother did that always went over the living room sofa. The rest of the décor was our teen posters, and a couple of those collage-type frames of family and school photos.”

  “That sounds pretty subdued from what I’ve seen of your mom.”

  “Well, when he retired out of the armed forces, my dad set about building Mom the house he said she deserved, for trekking and packing and unpacking after his work all those years. He created that great room idea a good ten years before it was everywhere, so that Mom never had to leave the party to check on the dinner. They live in that room, really. And I think she burned that tea towel in some sort of crazy ceremony with her best friends from the base, two of whom we had known forever and called Aunty Myrna and Aunty Jean, because we were always in each other’s houses. She took my dad art shopping, and they have turned out to be quite canny collectors. They have a small Norval Morrisseau, and a Harry Wolfarth arctic landscape, and a Margaret Mooney portrait of a woman looking in a mirror. They also have some original Sue Coleman animal paintings with the Haida shadow of the animal worked in, which I love. And when I went to see them last Christmas, I noticed she had hung up the little sailor boy pictures in her laundry room. So I guess she didn’t get rid of all of her make-do art.”

  “They sound quite serious about art. What if we end up getting things they don’t like?”

  “I think that would make her very happy. Art is supposed to be what you like, not what you think people will judge you on.”

  “And what if we can’t find art we agree on?”

  “Do you really think that’s going to happen? Have you always felt comfortable in my old apartment?”

  “Well, aside from your bed, which was too small.”

  “And I think your, now our, condo is absolutely beautiful, if a bit stark.”

  “I agree on the starkness. I’ve just never had money to focus on art with before.”

  “You know, there was once a rule that any building getting a permit here in the city needed to devote one per cent of its budget to art in the public areas, to allow for the support of local artists and the aesthetic enhancement of the city. I’m not sure if that is still on the books or not.”

  We were at the gallery district by now. The area at the eastern end of Jasper Avenue, where it abruptly turned into 124th Street due to the river valley’s capricious addition of a gulch, had become the de facto gallery district due to the number of small, beautiful galleries along a four-block stretch. On either side of the street, and down a couple of side avenues, discreet signs led into peaceful spaces where people wandered, looking at the art available at a variety of prices.

  Twice a year, all the galleries organized a two-day gallery walk, with hors d’oeuvres and beverages along the way. This wasn’t that weekend, but plenty of people were browsing here and there.

  We began with the Bearclaw Gallery that specialized in Indigenous art, and strolled through, admiring the clean lines of Haida art, and the exquisite soapstone carvings depicting Inuit life and the animals who helped make it possible.

  I was taken by the thick dollops of paint creating fallen leaves in a huge painting in the next gallery we visited, just across the avenue. Both Steve and I moved in and then stepped back from the mountain scene, enjoying the combination of photorealism with paint technique impressionism. It was too big for any of our walls, but I picked up an artist sheet to remind us of him.

  We moved rather quickly through the next store, noting that we likely couldn’t have made even a down payment on any of their items with our art budget.

  The West End Gallery captivated us for quite a while. The landscapes were by seven or eight different artists but all shared a vitality and wildness that we both seemed to enjoy. Steve was taken by a group of dinghies tied together at a wharf, which didn’t do much for me except in a sort of touristy way. It wasn’t my world.

  I moved toward a pathway through birch trees, set in that magical autumn weekend when all the colours change and the wind hasn’t blown all the leaves away yet. You could almost smell the mulchy richness of the ravine path. Steve came up behind me and rested his chin on my shoulder.

  “It’s amazing that a riot of yellow and red and orange can be so calming,” he said. He was right, I was taken by the meditative quality it produced.

  “He did the cows, too.”

  I looked to the right of the autumn pathway painting to see some deliriously happy pink and red cows walking toward the foreground of a prairie scene. It was a crazy combination of realism and surrealism and it made me giggle. Now, that was a painting I could live with for a good long time.

  “Let’s pick up the information on this artist and go for lunch now?” Steve suggested, and I nodded happily, dislodging his head from its resting place. We chatted briefly to the woman in the gallery, who wasn’t personally acquainted with the artist, but said he was from near Red Deer.

  “All our artists are from Alberta,” she said proudly. I looked around the large gallery, impressed with the scope and breadth of our visual artists. We had been through four galleries in the last hour or so, and it was already enough to note that the visual arts were thriving in our province.

  We popped across 124th Street and into the Prairie Noodle Shop, a charming newish restaurant with large windows frosting up in the winter cold.

  Both of us ordered ramen, me opting for the least salty version, and an order of edamame to share. When our lunch arrived, it was in steaming bowls of heaven and just as wonderful to eat. We drank large cups of tea with our meal
, and talked art.

  I spent some time offering up insights from my reading about Frida Kahlo, and Steve countered with some ideas gleaned from a long ago art history class. Both of us knew we were taken with impressionist and primitive art. Steve was also impressed with the big sky paintings of Sylvain Voyer and Ian Shelton, one who painted sunny blue skies over his canola fields and the other who countered with storms on the horizon.

  I wasn’t certain I could handle that much sky. On the whole, while I admired them, the prairies frightened me. There was too much openness, and I had the sense I could be blown away or plucked out of my tentative existence there. I was always much more grounded and secure in mountain scenery, where there was something on the horizon to link me to my surroundings and something to grab on to should the winds pick up.

  “I also like the universe that you can explore in a very small world, like when the artist zones in on just part of a trunk of a tree, or the corner of a building. Sometimes that is the zen for me, exploring the beauty in lines and corners you don’t normally pay attention to.”

  “You know, I think we’re sitting in the wrong chairs, then.” Steve pointed over my shoulder. “What do you think of that? I’ve been noticing it the whole time we’ve been eating, but it wasn’t mountains, so I didn’t say anything.”

  I turned to look at a close up of several sunflower heads vying with each other for attention. It was a large photo print, and yet not quite a photo. I leaned in to the small sign beside the frame to read “John Wright. Sunflowers. Photo manipulation.”

  “It’s wonderful. There’s a John Wright who is a Shakesperian actor here in town, do you think it’s the same person?”